Played the organ;

repeating it with his eyes on the fire, as he softly danced the child on
his knee. For he felt that Margaret had stopped working.

"Yes," said the captain, still looking at the fire, "I make up stories
and tell 'em to that child. Stories of shipwreck on desert islands, and
long delay in getting back to civilised lauds. It is to stories the like
of that, mostly, that

Silas Jorgan
Plays the organ."

There was no light in the room but the light of the fire; for the shades
of night were on the village, and the stars had begun to peep out of the
sky one by one, as the houses of the village peeped out from among the
foliage when the night departed. The captain felt that Margaret's eyes
were upon him, and thought it discreetest to keep his own eyes on the
fire.

"Yes; I make 'em up," said the captain. "I make up stories of brothers
brought together by the good providence of GOD,--of sons brought back to
mothers, husbands brought back to wives, fathers raised from the deep,
for little children like herself."

Margaret's touch was on his arm, and he could not choose but look round
now. Next moment her hand moved imploringly to his breast, and she was
on her knees before him,--supporting the mother, who was also kneeling.

"What's the matter?" said the captain. "What's the matter?