Saved at Sea | Page 6

our breakfast.
I sat down on a stool before the fire, with the child on my knee. She
seemed to be about two years old, a strong, healthy little thing. She had
stopped crying now, and did not seem to be afraid of me; but whenever
any of the others came near she hid her face in my shoulder.
Mrs. Millar brought her a basin of bread and milk, and she let me feed
her.
She seemed very weary and sleepy, as if she could hardly keep her eyes
open. 'Poor wee lassie!' said my grandfather; 'I expect they pulled her
out of her bed to bring her on deck. Won't you put her to bed?'
'Yes,' said Mrs. Millar, 'I'll put her in our Polly's bed; she'll sleep there
quite nice, she will.'
But the child clung to me, and cried so loudly when Mrs. Millar tried to
take her, that my grandfather said,--
'I wouldn't take her away, poor motherless lamb; she takes kindly to
Alick; let her bide here.'
So we made up a little bed for her on the sofa; and Mrs. Millar brought
one of little Polly's nightgowns, and undressed and washed her, and put
her to bed.
The child was still very shy of all of them but me. She seemed to have
taken to me from the first, and when she was put into her little bed she
held out her tiny hand to me, and said, 'Handie, Timpey's handie.'

'What does she say? bless her!' said Mrs. Millar, for it was almost the
first time that the child had spoken.
'She wants me to hold her little hand,' I said, 'Timpey's little hand.
Timpey must be her name!'
'I never heard of such a name,' said Mrs. Millar. 'Timpey, did you say?
What do they call you, darling?' she said to the child.
But the little blue eyes were closing wearily, and very soon the child
was asleep. I still held that tiny hand in mine as I sat beside her; I was
afraid of waking her by putting it down.
'I wonder who she is,' said Mrs. Millar, in a whisper, as she folded up
her little clothes. 'She has beautiful things on, to be sure! She has been
well taken care of, anyhow! Stop, here's something written on the little
petticoat; can you make it out, Alick?'
I laid down the little hand very carefully, and took the tiny petticoat to
the window.
'Yes,' I said, 'this will be her name. Here's Villiers written on it.
'Dear me!' said Mrs. Millar. 'Yes, that will be her name. Dear me, dear
me; to think of her poor father and mother at the bottom of that
dreadful sea! Just think if it was our Polly!' And then Mrs. Millar cried
so much again that she was obliged to go home and finish her cry with
her little Polly clasped tightly in her arms.
My grandfather was very worn out with all he had done during the
night, and went upstairs to bed. I sat watching the little sleeping child. I
felt as if I could not leave her.
She slept very quietly and peacefully. Poor little pet! how little she
knows what has happened, I thought; and my tears came fast, and fell
on the little fat hand which was lying on the pillow. But after a few
minutes I leaned my head against the sofa, and fell fast asleep. I had
had no sleep the night before, and was quite worn out.

I was awakened, some hours after, by some one pulling my hair, and a
little voice calling in my ear, 'Up! up, boy! up! up!'
I looked up, and saw a little roguish face looking at me--the merriest,
brightest little face you can imagine.
'Up, up, boy, please!' she said again, in a coaxing voice.
So I lifted up my head, and she climbed out of her little bed on the sofa
on to my knee.
'Put shoes on, boy,' she said, holding out her little bare toes.
I put on her shoes and stockings, and then Mrs. Millar came in and
dressed her.
It was a lovely afternoon; the storm had ceased whilst we had been
asleep, and the sun was shining brightly. I got the dinner ready, and the
child watched me, and ran backwards and forwards, up and down the
kitchen. She seemed quite at home now and very happy.
My grandfather was still asleep, so I did not wake him. Mrs. Millar
brought in some broth she had made for the child, and we dined
together. I wanted to feed her, as I had done the night before, but she
said,--
'Timpey have 'poon, please!' and took the spoon from me, and fed
herself so prettily, I