At the very end of a rocky point, there was a tall white lighthouse. In it lived an old keeper named Hamish, and a grey cat named Biscuit.
Every evening, just as the sun touched the sea, Hamish climbed the spiral stairs to light the great lamp. Biscuit climbed behind him. There were ninety-nine steps, and Biscuit counted every one with a small, serious meow.
"Ninety-nine," said Hamish at the top, a little out of breath. "Well done, Biscuit."
He lit the lamp. The great glass turned, and a beam of gold light swept out over the water, round and round and round.
Biscuit liked to sit on the windowsill and watch it go. Out on the dark waves, a fishing boat bobbed home. Its captain looked up, saw the light, and waved.
"Somebody is always glad to see us," said Hamish.
Tonight, a soft fog rolled in. It crept over the water like a gentle white blanket, and the beam made a glowing tunnel through it.
"The boats need us tonight," said Hamish. He polished the lens with his sleeve, and Biscuit helped by walking back and forth in front of the glass, which did not help, but Hamish smiled anyway.
Hours went by. The lamp turned. The fog hummed. A foghorn far away made one low, slow note, like a great, kind whale.
Biscuit grew sleepy. He looked for somewhere to curl up. He tried the chair, but the chair was too hard. He tried the cupboard, but the cupboard was too small. He tried the stairs, but the stairs were too draughty.
At last, he found a warm spot, right beside the lamp. It was the best place in the whole lighthouse. The glass was gently warm, and the light went round and round above him like a slow, golden sun.
Biscuit turned around three times. He tucked his paws under his chin. And with the sea whispering below, he began to purr.
"Goodnight, Biscuit," said Hamish.
Out on the water, the last boat saw the light and found its way into the harbour. The captain tied her up, climbed the dock, and went home to bed.
All through the night, the lamp turned, round and round and round, and the cat slept on, and the sea kept watch.