this cross glittered and shone in the firelight,--it was cut from
solid ice.

'Perhaps I can help, you,' said old Fog's voice behind. 'I did not
show you this, for fear it would anger you, but--but there must have
been a child on board after all.' He held a little box of toys,
carefully packed as if by a mother's hand,--common toys, for she was
only the captain's wife, and the schooner a small one; the little waif
had floated ashore by itself, and Fog had seen and hidden it.

Waring said nothing, and the two men began to tie on the toys in
silence. But after a while they warmed to their work and grew eager to
make it beautiful; the old red ribbon that Orange had given was
considered a precious treasure-trove, and, cut into fragments, it
gayly held the little wooden toys in place on the green boughs.

Fog, grown emulous, rifled the cupboards and found small cakes baked
by the practised hand of the old cook; these he hung exultingly on the
higher boughs. And now the little tree was full, and stood bravely in
its place at the far end of the long room, while the white cross
looked down on the toys of the drowned child and the ribbon of the
slave, and seemed to sanctify them for their new use.

Great was the surprise of Silver the next morning, and many the
questions she asked. Out in the world, they told her, it was so; trees
like that were decked for children.

'Am I a child?' said Silver, thoughtfully; 'what do you think, papa?'

'What do you think?' said Waring, turning the question.