bout a fortnight after my father arrived, we were surprised one Monday morning by another visit from old Mr. Davis. His son-in-law had asked him to come to tell my grandfather that he had received a letter with regard to the little girl who was saved from the "Victory." So he told my father and me as we stood on the pier; and all the way to the house I was wondering what the letter could be.

Timpey was running by my side, her little hand in mine, and I could not hear to think how dull we should be when she was gone.

"Why, it's surely Mr. Davis," said my grandfather, as he rose to meet the old gentleman.

"Yes," said he, "it is Mr. Davis; and I suppose you can guess what I've come for.

"Not to take our little sunbeam, sir," said my grandfather, taking Timpey in his arms. "You never mean to say you're going to take her away?"

"Wait a bit," said the old gentleman, sitting down and fumbling in his pocket; "wait until you've heard this letter, and then see what you think about her going."

And he began to read as follows:

My Dear Sir:
I am almost overpowered with joy by the news received by telegram an hour ago. We had heard of the loss of the "Victory," and were mourning for our little darling as being among the number of those drowned. Her mother has been quite crushed by her loss, and has been dangerously ill ever since the sad intelligence reached us.

Need I tell you what our feelings were when we suddenly heard that our dear child was alive, and well, and happy!

We shall sail by the next steamer for England to claim our little darling. My wife is hardly strong enough to travel this week, or we should come at once. A thousand thanks to the brave men who saved our little girl. I shall hope soon to be able to thank them myself. My heart is too full to write much today.

Our child was traveling home under the care of a friend, as we wished her to leave India before the hot weather set in, and I was not able to leave for two months. This accounts for the name Villiers not being on the list of passengers on board the "Victory."

Thanking you most sincerely for all your efforts to let us know of our child's safety,
        I remain, yours very truly,
          Edward Villiers

"Now," said the old gentleman, looking at me, and laughing, though I saw a tear in his eye, won't you let them have her?"

"Well, to be sure," said my grandfather, "what can one say after that? Poor things, how pleased they are!"

"Timpey," I said, taking the little girl on my knee, "who do you think is coming to see you? Your mother is coming -- coming to see little Timpey!"

The child looked earnestly at me; she evidently had not quite forgotten the name. She opened her blue eyes wider than usual and looked very thoughtful for a minute or two. Then she nodded her head very wisely, and said:

"Dear mother coming to see Timpey?"

"Bless her!" said the old gentleman, stroking her fair little head; "she seems to know all about it."

Then we sat down to breakfast; and while we were eating it, old Mr. Davis turned to me and asked if I had read the little piece of paper.

"Yes, sir," said my grandfather, "indeed we have read it"; and he told him about Jem Millar, and what he had said to me that last morning. "And now," said my grandfather, "I wish, if you'd be so kind, you would tell me how to get on the Rock, for I'm on sand now; there's no doubt at all about it, and I'm afraid, as you said the last time you were here, that it won't stand the storm."

"It would be a sad thing," said old Mr. Davis, "to be on the sand when the great storm comes.

"Aye, sir, it would," said my grandfather; "I often lie in bed at night and think of it, when the winds and the waves are raging. I call to mind that verse where it says about the sea and the waves roaring, and men's hearts failing them for fear. Dear me, I should be terribly frightened, that I should, if that day were to come, and I saw the Lord coming in glory."

"But you need not be afraid if you are on the Rock," said our old friend. "All who have come to Christ, and are resting on Him, will feel as safe in that day as you do when there is a storm raging and you are inside this house."

"Yes," said my grandfather, "I see that, sir; but somehow I don't know what you mean by getting on the Rock; I don't quite see it, sir."

"Well," said Mr. Davis, "what would you do if this house were built on the sand down there by the shore, and you knew that the very first storm that came would sweep it away?"

"Do, sir!" said my grandfather. "Why, I should pull it down, every stone of it, and build it up on the rock instead."

"Exactly!" said Mr. Davis. "You have been building your hopes of Heaven on the sand -- on your good deeds, on your good intentions, on all sorts of sand heaps. You know you have."

"Yes," said Grandfather, "I know I have."

"Well, my friend," said Mr. Davis, "pull them all down. Say to yourself, 'I'm a lost man if I remain as I am; my hopes are all resting on the sand.' And then, build your hopes on something better, something which will stand the storm; build them on Christ. He is the only way to Heaven. He has died that you, a poor sinner, might go there. Build your hopes on Him, my friend. Trust to what He has done for you as your only hope of Heaven -- that is building on the Rock!"

"I see, sir; I understand you now."

"Do that," said Mr. Davis, "and then your hope will be a sure and steadfast hope, a good hope which can never be moved. And when the last great storm comes, it will not touch you; you will be as certainly and as entirely safe in that day as you are in this lighthouse when the storm is raging outside, because you will be built upon the immovable Rock."

I cannot recollect all the conversation which Mr. Davis and my grandfather had that morning, but I do remember that before he went away he knelt down with us and prayed that we might every one of us be found on the Rock in that last great storm.

And I remember also that night, when my grandfather said good night to me, he said, "Alick, my lad, I don't mean to go to sleep tonight till I can say, like poor Jem Millar:

On Christ, the solid Rock, I stand;
All other ground is sinking sand.

And I believe that my grandfather kept his word.

Chapter 12 - The Sunbeam Claimed

t was a cold, cheerless morning; the wind was blowing, and the rain was beating against the windows. It was far too wet and stormy for little Timpey to be out, so she and I had a game of ball together in the kitchen, while my father and grandfather went down to the pier.

She looked such a pretty little thing that morning. She had on a little blue frock, which my grandfather had bought for her, and which Mrs. Millar had made before she left the island, and a clean white pinafore. She was screaming with delight, as I threw the ball over her head and she ran to catch it, when the door opened and my father ran in.

"Alick, is she here? They've come!"

"Who've come, Father?" I said.

"Little Timpey's father and mother; they are coming up the garden now with your grandfather!"

He had hardly finished speaking before my grandfather came in with a lady and gentleman. The lady ran forward as soon as she saw her child, put her arms round her, and held her tightly to her, as if she could never part from her again. Then she sat down with her little darling on her knee, stroking her tiny hands and talking to her, and looking, oh, so anxiously, to see if the child remembered her!

At first Timpey looked a little shy, and hung down her head, and would not look into her mother's face. But this was only for a minute. As soon as her mother spoke to her she evidently remembered her voice. Mrs. Villiers asked her, with tears in her eyes:

"Do you know me, little Timpey? My dear little Timpey, who am I?"

The child looked up and smiled as she said, "Dear Mother -- Timpey's dear mother!" and she put up her little fat hand to stroke her mother's face.

And then when I saw that, I could feel no longer sorry that the child was going away.

I can well remember what a happy morning that was. Mr. and Mrs. Villiers were so kind to us, and so very grateful for all that my grandfather and I had done for their little girl. They thought her looking so much better and stronger than when she left India, and they were so pleased to find that she had not forgotten all the little lessons she had learned at home. Mrs. Villiers seemed as if she could not take her eyes off the child; wherever little Timpey went and whatever she was doing, her mother followed her, and I shall never forget how happy and how glad both the father and the mother looked.

But the pleasantest day will come to an end; and in the evening a boat was to come from shore to take Mr. and Mrs. Villiers and their child away.

"Dear me!" said my grandfather, with a groan, as he took the little girl on his knee.

"I never felt so sorry to lose anybody, never; I'm sure I didn't. Why, I calls her my little sunbeam, sir! You'll excuse me saying so, but I don't feel over and above kindly to you for taking her away from me; I don't indeed, sir.

"Then I don't know what you will say to me when you hear I want to rob you further," said Mr. Villiers.

"Rob me further?" repeated my grandfather.

"Yes," said Mr. Villiers, putting his hand on my shoulder. "I want to take this grandson of yours away too. It seems to me a great pity that such a fine lad should waste his days shut up on this little island. Let him come with me and I will send him to a really good school for three or four years, and then I will get him some good clerkship, or something of that kind, and put him in the way of making his way in the world. Now then, my friend, will you and his father spare him?"

"Well," said my grandfather, "I don't know what to say to you, sir; it's very good of you -- very good, indeed it is -- and it would be a fine thing for Alick, it would indeed; but I always thought he would take my place here when I was dead."

"Yes," said my father; "but you see I shall be here to do that, Father; and if Mr. Villiers is so very kind as to take Alick, I'm sure we ought only to be too glad for him to have such a friend."

"You're right, David; yes, you're right. We mustn't be selfish, sir; and you'd let him come and see us sometimes, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, to be sure," said Mr. Villiers; "he can come and spend his holidays here, and give you fine stories of his school life. Now, Alick, what say you? There's a capital school in the town where we are going to live, so you would be near us and you could come to see us on holiday afternoons, and see whether this little woman [Timpey] remembers all you have taught her. What say you?"

I was very pleased indeed, and very thankful for his kindness, and my father and grandfather said they would never be able to repay him.

"Repay me!" said Mr. Villiers. "Why, my friends, it's I who can never repay you. Just think for one moment of what you have given me" -- and he put his arm round his little girl's neck. "So we may consider that matter settled. And now, when can Alick come?"

My grandfather begged for another month, and Mr. Villiers said that would do very well, as in that time the school would reopen after the holidays. And so it came to pass, that when I said good-by to little Timpey that afternoon, it was with the hope of soon seeing her again.

Her father called her Lucy, which I found was her real name. Timpey was a pet name [nickname], which had been given her as a baby. But though Lucy was certainly a prettier name, still I felt I should always think of her as Timpey -- my little Timpey.

I shall never forget my feelings that month. A strange new life was opening before me, and I felt quite bewildered by the prospect.

My grandfather, and father, and I sat over the watch-room fire, night after night, talking over my future; and day after day I wandered over our dear little island, wondering how I should feel when I said good-by to it, and went into the great world beyond.

Since old Mr. Davis' visit, there had been a great change in our little home. The great Bible had been taken down from its place and carefully read and studied, and Sunday was no longer spent like any other day, but was kept as well as it could be on that lonely island.

My grandfather, I felt sure, was a new man. Old things had passed away; all things had become new. He was dearer to me than ever, and I felt sorrowful when I thought of parting from him.

"I could never leave you, Grandfather," I said one day, "if my father had not been here."

"No," he said, "I don't think I could have spared you, Alick; but your father just came back in right time -- didn't you, David?"

At last the day arrived on which Mr. Villiers had appointed to meet me at the town to which the steamer went every Monday morning when it left the island. My father and grandfather walked with me down to the pier and saw me on board. And the very last thing my grandfather said to me was, "Alick, my lad, keep on the Rock -- be sure you keep on the Rock!"

And I trust that I have never forgotten my grandfather's last words to me.

The End

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