beseech thee, protect all souls at sea this night; for Jesus
Christ's sake; amen!"

This was the prayer that Miss Vesta had offered every evening for
thirty years. As often as she repeated it, the sea before her eyes
changed, and she saw a stretch of black tossing water, with
foam-crests that the lightning turned to pale fire; a sail drove
across her window, dipped, and disappeared. Miss Vesta closed her
eyes.

But as the old doctor said, people do not mourn for thirty years;
when she opened her eyes, they were grave, but serene. "It is a very
sightly evening!" she repeated. She leaned out of the window, and
drew in long breaths of sweetness. Presently the sweetness was
crossed by a whiff of a different fragrance, pungent, aromatic,--the
fragrance of tobacco. Doctor Strong was smoking his evening cigar in
the garden. He would not have thought of smoking in the house, even
if Miss Phoebe would have allowed it; he smoked as he rode on his
morning round, and he took his evening cigar, as now, in the garden.
Miss Vesta saw him now, in the growing dusk, striding up and down;
not hastily, but with energy and determination in every stride. Her
eyes dwelt upon him affectionately; she had grown very fond of him.
It was delightful to her to have this young, vigorous creature in the
house, fairly electric with life and joy and strength; she felt
younger every time she saw him. He was good to look at, too, though
no one would have called him a beauty. Tall and well-made, his head
properly set on shoulders that were perhaps the least bit too square;
his fair hair cropped close, in hope of destroying the curl that
would still creep into it in spite of him; his hazel eyes as bright
as eyes could be, his skin healthy red and brown,--yes, the young