FOUR miles from Milston Harbor lies a small cove known as Sunlight bay. On the tops of the cliffs above, in the course of years, a hamlet surrounded by cornfields had grown into existence, consisting of but one crooked street and one general shop; yet these strange straggling cottages were dignified by the name of Sunlight village.
The greater part of the inhabitants were hardworking men, either employed in Milston Harbor or as laborers at the numerous farms dotted about the country.
There were two houses situated on the beach, one a strongly-built four-roomed cottage, the other, about a quarter of a mile away from it, was made out of two old boats and various pieces of wreckage, etc. Here lived a man who went by the name of Evil Deane, a churlish, uncouth fellow; he, with a man named Wilson, who lived in the other cottage on the beach, owned a smart little cutter and two rowing-boats, the only boats in fact in Sunlight bay. These men made a very fair living by fishing, but not long before they had tried their hands at a little smuggling; at first, just sufficient brandy and tobacco for themselves, then enough for one or two other men, and so on, until they brought over more each time they made a run to the French coast. Drink, that terrible evil, was as yet almost unknown in Sunlight village, but was slowly and surely spreading among the once sober villagers. They guessed it was smuggled, but it suited their convenience to keep silent, for could they not buy it at half its value?
It was a singular friendship which existed between Wilson, or Captain, as most people called him, and Evil Deane. It was of over sixteen years' standing, ever since Wilson's wife died and left him with an infant then not a month old, at which time Deane was a mere lad. These two rough men contrived unaided to bring up the child, for no woman had been asked or allowed to enter either of the cottages.
Both were devoted to the baby. She passed half her time on the sea, either wrapped up in a blanket, peacefully asleep in an old box, or crawling about the deck with a piece of rope tied securely round her waist to prevent her falling overboard. She would gaze in wonder at the beautiful fish when her father and Evil Deane drew up the nets. As she grew older and her character became more bold and fearless, she was of great use in hauling in the sails and sorting the fish. Her winning ways and lively prattle made the time pass very pleasantly to the two rough men. And so the girl had grown up until she passed her sixteenth birthday. By the villagers, unlike her father and Evil Deane, Gwen was much liked; for though she had little intercourse with the cottagers, her innocent ways and joyous nature won for her a place in their hearts, and, moreover, her mother had left the memory of many acts of kindness behind her.
One hot day in August about noon, when the sun was pouring down his powerful beat on Sunlight village, and most people kept wisely indoors for an hour or two, Evil Deane, with his cap well over his eyes, came striding along the straggling street on his way to the beach below. After him in breathless haste ran Gwen, her bare feet hardly making a sound on the sandy path; she was attired in a bright blue silk dress, her father's last present, but as for shoes, stockings, or hat, she had none. As she reached Evil Deane she administered to him a hearty pat upon the back. He turned quickly round, but when he saw who it was his face relaxed into a smile.
“Where have you been all this morning and yesterday?” she cried. “We have been hunting for you everywhere."
“What am I wanted for? " he asked, stroking her curly hair; " anything up? "
“Yes, indeed! a most wonderful thing has happened; we have had a letter."
“A letter Where from? "
"From London, to say father's sister is dead, and begging him to take care of Alice, her little girl."
“He ain't a-going to I 'ope," said Evil Deane, with a frown; " she shan't come 'ere, if I can help it. 'Ow old is she? "
“She is only fourteen, and father says, if I don't like her when she comes, he'll soon send her away. I'm going to sit on the gate in the rye-fields to watch for their coming."
Away she flew through the fields of yellow corn, stopping now and then to gather the poppies and corn-flowers. In about half an hour the rye-fields were reached, and she leaned on the gate, from which could be seen the main road, along which the London coach would pass on its way to Milston Harbor. Here she remained patiently, singing to herself snatches of sea songs that she had heard her father or Evil Deane sing, making the while a pretty garland of the corn-flowers and poppies she had gathered. In an hour's time up came Evil Deane, holding in his hand a huge piece of bread and cheese.
“Getting tired of waiting, Gwen?" he asked, giving her the bread and cheese.
"You've taken your time," she answered, laughing; “I thought you'd bring me something, though. I'm so hungry, and thirsty too."
"I do so wish I could read," Gwen added, after a moment's silence.
“Why?" asked Deane, with a scowl.
“Because then I could find out where God lives, and read all the wonderful things in the Bible. Will Smith's wife told me this morning that her Davy, who died last week, had gone to Heaven, where he will never cry any more, but wear a beautiful shining frock."
“I thought the Cap'n told you not to talk to the women in the village," he said.
"So he did, but when I ask him who made the stars and trees and everything, he always says God, but he doesn't tell me where He is and how to find Him, so I thought per'aps Will Smith's wife would know."
"I wish she'd been at the bottom of the sea, afore she'd stuck such rubbish into yer head. Ain't yer content as yer are? What more d'ye want? "
“I don't quite know, but I often think about God now, when you and father are away, He is so wonderful, and I should like to thank Him for making such lovely things. I would give Him the prettiest thing I have in return, even the big gold locket I had on my last birthday."
“Have yer got anything ready for 'em to eat?" Evil Deane asked, anxious to change the subject.
“Of course!" she answered, with a smile, which showed a big dimple in each cheek, “I got supper ready as soon as it was light this morning in case they should come home earlier. What do you think father will bring me? "
"Can't tell—lump o' sweet stuff; 'at with a long feather; or a shawl or shoes for the winter—there's such a many things to choose from."
Evil Deane patiently waited for an hour in the broiling sun, talking to Gwen and telling her stories and funny anecdotes, until, in the distance a distinct rumble of wheels was heard. Then she sprang off the gate, and they both ran into the main road. The old coach had stopped, and her father had got down from his seat outside and was helping out a pale-faced girl dressed in deep mourning. When they came up, Gwen sprang into her father's arms and almost squeezed him to death. “We’ve been watching such a long time, father," she cried. "Is that Alice? Why, I thought she'd be much bigger and prettier, and she's quite lame too;" then, seeing the tears in Alice's eyes, she gave her a hearty kiss, saying, "Don't cry; you shall have half the present father's brought me."
Evil Deane never gave the poor little desolate stranger any greeting whatever, but taking up her modest-looking trunk marched on in front without a word.
A grand repast had been prepared for the travelers; there were bread and cheese, new milk, shrimps, and a large lobster. “Will you have milk, father?" she asked, as they sat down.
“No; I don't feel quite the thing. I'll have some of my medicine, and so will Deane; pour us out a good dose, Gwen."
“Why, it smells like brandy," said Alice, speaking for the first time.
The two men exchanged glances but said nothing.
“Where are you going to put your cousin, Gwen?" her father asked, as the evening came on.
“She’s to sleep with me, father; there's lots of room."
The two girls went to bed early, for Alice was very tired. The hostess with childish delight helped to unpack the box. “What are these? she asked, holding up two handsomely-bound books.
“Dear mother gave them to me before she died," said Alice, in an unsteady tone; "one's a Bible and the other is a ‘Pilgrim's Progress.’”
“Can you read?" cried Gwen, with wide open eyes; "I can't. Then you can find out the wonderful things in the Bible, all about God, where He lives and perhaps how to find Him.”
“Oh dear I am glad."
“I’ll teach you to read," said Alice, in amazement, as she heard the frank but terrible confession of ignorance, "and tell you all I know in the morning. I'm going to say my prayers, now."
“Prayers?" said Gwen; "what do you mean?"
“Why, asking God for all I want and thanking Him for all His goodness."
“But He isn't here. He can't hear you."
“Oh yes! He can, quite well."
"Can He really? Then I'd like to thank Him too. Could He hear better if I opened the window, do you think? "
"No, no!" cried Alice, in blank astonishment; “didn’t your mother ever tell you about Him? "
“Mother died years ago, and father don't know the way to Heaven."
"I'll tell you in the morning," whispered Alice, as the Captain called out to them to go to sleep.
“I tell yer what, Cap'n," said Evil Deane as he was leaving, "you've done a bad day's work in bringing that pale-faced little girl 'ere. A spy on us, that's what she’ll be."
“She’s my own sister's child," the other answered, thoughtfully; "but still I shall send her off if it suits me."
"Then I 'ope it soon will," muttered Evil Deane, as he moved away.