trees on the beach."

"And my child, Captain Carton, did you find my child, too? Does my
darling rest with my mother?"

"No. Your pretty child sleeps," said the Captain, "under a shade of
flowers."

His voice shook; but there was something in it that struck all the
hearers. At that moment there sprung from the arbour in his boat a
little creature, clapping her hands and stretching out her arms, and
crying, "Dear papa! Dear mamma! I am not killed. I am saved. I am
coming to kiss you. Take me to them, take me to them, good, kind
sailors!"

Nobody who saw that scene has ever forgotten it, I am sure, or ever will
forget it. The child had kept quite still, where her brave grandmamma
had put her (first whispering in her ear, "Whatever happens to me, do not
stir, my dear!"), and had remained quiet until the fort was deserted; she
had then crept out of the trench, and gone into her mother's house; and
there, alone on the solitary Island, in her mother's room, and asleep on
her mother's bed, the Captain had found her. Nothing could induce her to
be parted from him after he took her up in his arms, and he had brought
her away with him, and the men had made the bower for her. To see those
men now, was a sight. The joy of the women was beautiful; the joy of
those women who had lost their own children, was quite sacred and divine;
but, the ecstasies of Captain Carton's boat's crew, when their pet was
restored to her parents, were wonderful for the tenderness they showed in
the midst of roughness. As the Captain stood with the child in his arms,
and the child's own little arms now clinging round his neck, now round