: Rilla of the Lighthouse by North Grace May - Bildungsromans; New England Juvenile fiction; Lighthouses Juvenile fiction; Identity (Philosophical concept) Juvenile fiction; Reunions Juvenile fiction

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RILLA OF THE LIGHTHOUSE

"Here yo', Shags! What yo' got thar, ol' dog? Haul it out! Like it's a treasure from a ship that's gone down. Ahoy, thar, Shagsie! Here comes a crashin' big wave. Whoo! Wa'n't that-un a tarnal whopper? An' yo' lost yer treasure, sure sartin! Sharp ahead now, ol' dog, d'y see it anywhar?"

The wind-blown girl and the big shaggy dog stood side by side on the narrow, pebbly strip of beach and gazed intently at the whirling, seething water where a breaker of unusual size had crashed high, sending these two for a moment scrambling up the rocks.

Back of them towered an almost perpendicular cliff, on top of which stood the Windy Island Lighthouse, severe in outline, but glaring red and white in color that it might be readily observed in the daytime by pilots who were strangers in those dangerous waters.

Many a shoal there was under the tossing, turbulent waves, unsuspected by the unwary mariner, and, in the heavy fogs that often hung like wet, impenetrable blankets over that part of the New England coast, many a vessel would have crashed to its destruction had it not been for the faithful Captain Ezra Bassett, who had been keeper of the light since Rilla was a baby.

The dog's sight must have been keener than that of the girl, for a moment later he dashed away up the narrow strip of beach and began to bark furiously at some object that was tossing on an incoming wave. The girl raced after him, her hazel eyes glowing with excitement, her long brown hair, with a glint of red in it, unfastened, flying back of her.

"'Tain't the same thing, Shagsie!" she shouted to her companion. "'Tain't what yo' was tryin' to fetch ashore down below by the rocks. This-un is more like a box or suthin!"

The eager expression in the girl's big, starlike eyes changed to one of concern and anxiety.

"Shags," she cried, "thar's been a wreck, that's sure sartin, but 'twa'n't hereabouts, 'pears like." She shaded her eyes with one hand, and gazed searchingly out toward the horizon, but in another moment her eager interest returned to the box. "Look, yo' ol' dog. It's ridin' high. We'll get it, yo' see if we don't. Yi-hi! Here she comes. Heave ahead now, Shagsie!"

The dog raced around, barking wildly, but the barefooted girl plunged deep into the seething foam, caught a banded box of foreign appearance and held on with all her strength while the undertow tried to drag her treasure away, but the wave receded and the box was left high.

"We got it, ol' Shags. We got it!" she cried triumphantly, tossing back her sun-shimmered hair, for, when she had stooped, it had fallen about her face. This hindered the freedom of her movements, and so, snatching up a wet green ribbon of seaweed, she tied her hair back with it. Another wave was rushing, roaring shoreward. One quick seaward glance told her that it was going to be the biggest one yet.

Could she get the box high enough to be out of reach of that next breaker? How she tugged! But her efforts were fruitless, for with a deafening thud the wave crashed over her, lifting the box to which she still clung and hurling them both farther up the beach.

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