The old man had rested on his oars while she hurried through this tale,
with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, as if she thought she was
forestalling him. Now he picked them up again and began rowing out into
the harbor.

"That was a part of it," he admitted, "but that's only the part that the
whole town knows. That old figurehead has a meaning for me that nobody
else that's living knows about. That's what I want to pass on to you."

He rowed several minutes more before he said slowly, with a wistful
tenderness coming into his dim old eyes as he looked at her:

"Georgina, I don't suppose anybody's ever told you about the troubles
I've had. They wouldn't talk about such things to a child like you. Maybe
I shouldn't, now; but when I saw how disappointed you were this morning,
I said to myself, 'If she's old enough to feel trouble that way, she's
old enough to understand and to be helped by hearing about mine.'"

It seemed hard for him to go on, for again he paused, looking off toward
the lighthouse in the distance. Then he said slowly, in a voice that
shook at times:

"Once--I had a boy--that I set all my hopes on--just as a man puts all
his cargo into one vessel; and nobody was ever prouder than I was, when
that little craft went sailing along with the best of them. I used to
look at him and think, _'Danny'll_ weather the seas no matter how
rough they are, and he'll bring up in the harbor I'm hoping he'll reach,
with all flags flying.' And then--something went wrong--"

The tremulous voice broke. "My little ship went down--all my precious