Hannah climbed the spiral stairs of the lighthouse, carrying a bucket of whale oil. Her father was the lighthouse keeper, and at age ten, she had many responsibilities. It was 1850, and their lighthouse stood on a rocky cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
"Careful on those stairs!" her father called from above. Hannah counted the steps as she climbed—one hundred and fifty in total. She made this trip four times every day. Her father needed the oil to keep the lighthouse lamp burning all night long.
At the top, Hannah looked out the windows. She could see for miles in every direction. The ocean stretched to the horizon, and white-capped waves crashed against the rocks below. "Look there," her father said, pointing to a ship in the distance. "That captain is using our light to stay away from the dangerous rocks."
Hannah's father showed her how to clean the glass lens that made the light brighter. "This lens is special," he explained. "It's made of many pieces of curved glass. It makes our lamp look like a much bigger light. Ships can see it from twenty miles away."
Every evening at sunset, Hannah helped her father light the lamp. First, they trimmed the wick. Then her father struck a match and touched it to the wick. The flame grew bright, and the lens made it even brighter.
"What if we forget to light it?" Hannah asked. Her father's face grew serious. "Ships depend on our light. If we forget, ships might crash on the rocks. Sailors could die. That's why we never miss a single night."
When storms came, Hannah and her father stayed awake all night, making sure the light never went out. Hannah's tired arms from carrying oil and her sore legs from climbing the stairs suddenly made sense. Every night, their light guided ships safely home.