It was the end of March, when an event occurred which would have been a more than nine days’ wonder even in a busier spot than Tor Bay. The equinoctial gales had been protracted and severe. For days the sea off Fair Head, and through the strait that separates the mainland from Rathlin Island, had run mountains high; and now, though the surface was smooth and glistening in the bright spring sun, the long, heavy swell, as it broke in thundering rollers on the shore, bore witness to the fierceness of the recent conflict. The night had been wild and dark, but it was succeeded by one of those balmy days that are sent as harbingers of coming summer. Elsie and Jim had been busy ever since the return of the tide, about noon, dragging to shore the masses of sea-wrack that the recent storms had loosened and sent adrift.

The afternoon was now far advanced, and the children were growing weary of their work. Several heaps of brown, wet, shining weed stood at intervals along the sands, as monuments of their zeal. They began to look wistfully towards the hill for “father,” who had promised to meet them at the conclusion of the day’s work; but again and again they had looked in vain. It was now growing almost dusk. They had thought of desisting from their task, when a succession of gigantic rollers, like the fierce rear-guard of the great army that for so many hours had been broken to pieces on the sands, was seen approaching.

With a solemn reverberation the first giant toppled over, and swept a mass of mingled foam and sea-weed up the sands, far past where the wet and weary little toilers were standing. Knee-deep in the rapidly returning body of water, they strove with their rakes to arrest some fragments of the whirling and tangled mass of weeds. But the second giant was at hand. Checked in its advance by the retreating fragments of its predecessors, the monster hesitated. And then the two masses of water clashing together rose up in fierce embrace, while the foam and spray of their contention was blown by the keen east wind into the children’s faces. But the force of the tide was spent, and the second wave, though victorious in the wrestle, scarce survived the conflict, and did not even flow over the children’s feet. Elsie, therefore, sprang forward almost to the spot where the wave had broken, and brought down her rake into the midst of a huge and tangled mass. The retiring wave struggled hard to retain its own, so that the child was fairly drawn out by its force.

“Let go, let go!” cried Jim, as he caught the girl’s dress to help her resistance; “the rake will float in again.”

But Elsie was fascinated. She felt at once that the body she held was solid, though soft and yielding, and so she clung to the long rake-handle with all her might. The conflict was over in a few moments. The waters retired defeated, and left upon the sands a dark, limp, saturated body.

Come away, come away! shrieked the boy, as Elsie was cautiously advancing towards the mysterious object. The girl stood still, and hesitated a moment, while a vague dread crept over her. What was it that lay there in the bleak, cold twilight, so still and shapeless, and yet with such an awful suggestion of life about it? She was lost in bewilderment when the boys voice recalled her

“Elsie, Elsie, mind the wave!”

She had but a moment in which to spring back, as the third giant, towering above its predecessors, lifted the inert body on its crest, and flung it contemptuously high up upon the shore. Then the waters swept back and left the two children shivering alone on the strand: behind them were the dull, dead heaps of sea-weed, and at their feet a black mass of clothing. The children clung together in silent awe. Neither of them had ever seen a dead body. Hitherto death had been an abstraction, but now they felt themselves face to face with the reality.

“Let’s run and look for father,” suggested Jim, in a frightened whisper.

“We can’t leave her alone, Jim,” responded the girl, now pale and grave as she had never been before, and looking from the body to the line of foaming water but a few feet beyond; “the tide might turn and take her away again.”

“I wish it had not brought her!” gasped Jim, through his chattering teeth.

“Hush,” said Elsie; and then, after a pause, “if you go fetch some one, I’ll stay here.”

“Aren’t you afraid? I am.”

“Go,” said Elsie, “go quick; it’s getting dark.”

Hesitatingly the boy left her, and walked almost backwards till he reached the top of the beach; then, with a short cry of fear, he turned his hack on the sea, and ran up the path towards his home.

Elsie stood alone with the dead. She looked on the heaps of sea-weeds, and then along the line of breakers, that seemed even now gathering strength for a return movement. It was a trying ordeal for a child of ten, but the terrible novelty of the situation seemed to give her courage. She advanced towards the body, which she now saw was that of a woman dressed in black. She lay upon her back, the face only hidden by the tangled hair and sea-weed. Elsie noticed as she gazed, for what seemed hours, on the still form, that there was a gold chain round the neck, and two rings on the finger of the hand that rested upon the beach. As the gloom of the afternoon deepened, a sense of pity and yearning quite new to her, and which destroyed all fear, crept over the child. An irresistible longing urged her to draw back the tangled hair from the face. For a moment she turned away terrified, but then knelt down, and with trembling hands began to draw out the weeds, and to smooth back the heavy brown hair from the cold face. She grew absorbed in her task, and almost fancied the worn, yet beautiful and gentle features looked pleased and grateful. She even ventured to lift the heavy arm from the sand, but it fell back so stiffly that the child was terrified, and stood a little apart, wondering where the poor lady had come from. She knew not how long she had waited, when she was aroused by the sound of a voice. Looking up, she beheld Michael McAravey by her side.

“Well, Elsie, lass, what’s all this? There ’s that wee fool Jim crying himself into fits, and raving about dead bodies in the sea-weed. Blessed mother! so it is a dead body,” he added, excitedly, as he caught sight of the object of Elsie’s regard. The old man was only unnerved for a moment; then turning his back to the sea and putting his hands to his mouth, he gave a loud “halloa,” which echoed across the silent bay, but brought no other response.

“Now, lass, look sharp and run up the brae, and call some of the men, or the tide will be in upon us. And we ’ll lose the wrack, too, for the matter of that. Away you go in a moment,” he added, sternly, as the child seemed reluctant to abandon what she held to be her peculiar charge.

Elsie obeyed, and was fortunate enough, just as she was turning into the by-road that led to the shore, to run against George Hendrick.

“What has scared you so, Elsie?” he said, kindly, as he stopped the headlong child; “are you in mischief, and running away from anybody?”

“O Mr. Hendrick, we ’ve found a drowned lady on the shore, and I ’m running to tell the people; father’s with her.”

“Where?” cried the reader, quickly.

“In the sandy cove, where we get the sea-wrack.”

“Well, Elsie, you run on to McAuley’s, and ask him to bring down some spirits in case she might be alive still; and lose no time there’s a good girl.”

So saying, Hendrick sprang over the low fence and hurried down the shore. He soon saw through the dusk a tall figure bending over some object on the sand. It rose as he approached, and he at once recognised McAravey. The old man was singularly excited and flurried far more so than when he had joined Elsie.

“Thank God some one has come!” he cried; “and you ’re the very man I ’d like to see.”

“Is she quite dead?” said Hendrick, kneeling beside the body.

“Aye, dead enough and stiff,” answered the old man; “but see, the tide is almost on us. Let’s fetch her up a bit. I did not like to touch her till some one came.”

Between them they lifted the body into a place of safety, and then McAravey, whose agitation had not diminished, said, with affected indifference

“While we are waiting I ’ll just drag up a wee lock of that weed; there is no use letting the tide fetch it away again.” So saying, he proceeded to lift in his arms the heaps that were nearest the sea, and to place them beyond the high-water line.

Meanwhile Hendrick had been examining the features of the dead woman, and was startled to recognise one with whom he had conversed only the day before. This was the only important point brought out at the inquest, which took place in a couple of days. Hendrick deposed to having met a woman dressed like the deceased, as far as he could judge, walking on the cliffs past Fair Head. She had asked him about a short cut to Tor Bay by a rocky path which led abruptly down to the shore, and which, she said, she half-remembered. He had warned her that the way was a dangerous one, especially in bad weather. She had laughed, and said she had once been down the Grey Man’s Path, and had known the coast well in childhood. She had not told him her business in Tor Bay, but had said they might, perhaps, meet there. Had anything else passed? Yes, he had given her a little tract, as she seemed anxious and troubled. Anything else? No, except that when parting she had asked him the correct time in order to set her watch. Did Hendrick see the watch? No, but he thought she wore a chain, and was certain she had spoken of setting her watch, which she said had gone down. This matter excited some interest, because, though the tract given by Hendrick was found in the pocket of the dress, no watch or chain could be discovered. Had the unfortunate woman been robbed, and then thrown into the sea? Or had the watch and chain been stolen by Mike or the children, who first found the body? Or might they not easily have been lost from the body that had been so long tossed by the waves? Elsie’s examination did not tend to clear her of suspicion. Her answers to the preliminary questions as to “the nature of an oath” were somewhat flippant and unsatisfactory. As to the chain, she first spoke positively of having seen it, then hesitatingly, ending by saying she was frightened and knew nothing about it.

McAravey swore positively that he had seen no gold chain, and therefore had not taken one. Though an ugly suspicion was thus created, no further steps could be taken, Hendrick declining to vouch for more than an “impression” that the deceased wore a chain. Evidence of identity there was none. The linen was marked “E. D,” and the mourning ring, which guarded a plain gold one, had merely the words, “In memory, H. D., 186.” The only further evidence was that of a public car-driver between Cushendall and Ballycastle, who deposed to having had a passenger who corresponded to the description of the dead woman. She had no luggage, and walked away when the car stopped. A woman was also found who had given deceased a night’s lodging. She said she had seemed excited and somewhat flighty was restless at night, and started off early, having paid a shilling for her lodging and breakfast. This last witness added to the confusion by saying she saw no chain, and did not believe her lodger had a watch, since she had several times asked her the hour, and had annoyed her into saying she ought to have a watch of her own. This witnesss impression was that deceased had replied, I wish I had, and I wouldnt trouble you. This was absolutely all that could be ascertained. And accordingly the dead woman was buried by the Rev. Cooper Smith, in Rossleigh graveyard, which she had told Hendrick she had known well in her childhood. All the neighbourhood flocked to the funeral, and even Michael McAravey was for the first time in his life seen inside the doors of a Protestant church. The old man seemed much cut up, probably owing to the doubts cast on his honesty. So sad was the fate of the unknown wanderer, and so great the interest excited, that it was determined to record the mysterious event in a simple headstone, erected by subscription. To the surprise of everybody, McAravey, who had never been known to trouble himself about any one elses affairs, or to give away a shilling, took the matter up warmly, and himself subscribed fifteen shillings, which he paid in three instalments. The stone was erected, bearing this inscription:

“In Memory”

OF MRS. E. D. (NAME UNKNOWN)

FOUND DROWNED NEAR TOR POINT

On the 13th of March, 186 -- .

This Stone is Erected by Subscription.