An Unquiet, Adventurous Morning in the Shell-Cave.

 

“I think,” said Jeff Benson one fine morning, as he got up and stretched himself, “that I feel well enough to-day to get down to the shore without assistance. You know, auntie, I shall never be able to walk alone if I give way to laziness, and lean so much on others. I’m like the babies now, and must be encouraged to try it on my own hook.”

 

He looked at Miss Millet with a half-pitiful smile, for there was something woefully true in his words, and his good little nurse found it necessary to go in search of the household keys for a minute or so before answering.

 

“Well, Jeff, perhaps you are right and the day is splendid—sunny, calm, and warm—so you won’t be likely to catch cold. Only don’t go far, for you might become tired out. So, promise that you won’t go far, and then I will let you go.”

 

Jeff promised; but of course he did not do exactly as his nurse wished, for, in such circumstances, the word “far” has a wonderfully varied significance. At first, leaning on his stick and pausing frequently to recover strength, he made his way to the shore; but when there, the invigorating air and the exhilarating sound of ripples on the sand, and a rest on the rocks, made him feel so much better, that he thought he might walk the length of the shell-cave without breaking his promise.

 

He tried, and succeeded, but was so fatigued, when at length he threw himself on the soft sand at the cave’s mouth, that he felt uneasy about getting home again.

 

The shell-cave was a favourite nook in a lonely part of the cliffs, which Jeff had been wont to frequent in his coastguard days, especially at that particular time when he seemed to expect the revival of the smuggling traffic near Miss Millet’s cottage. He had frequently spoken of it to Rose as a beautiful spot where innumerable sea-shells were to be found, and had once taken her to see it.

 

It was, as we have said, a lonely spot, far removed from the fishing town, and was sought out by Jeff because he did not yet feel strong enough to hold much intercourse with his friends and former mates—none of whom had seen him since his illness began. But the poor invalid was doomed to several interruptions that day.

 

The first comer was his comrade Wilson, of the coastguard, whose place he had taken on the eventful night of the wreck. On rounding the point of rock, and coming suddenly on our hero, that worthy was struck dumb and motionless for at least a minute, while his eyes gradually opened wide with surprise, and his mouth partially followed suit.

 

“Not Jeff Benson!” said Wilson at last, in quite a solemn tone.

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