Poor Frank! Why did he not renounce at once that enticing stimulant which had already worked him so much misery? Was it worth while letting so paltry an indulgence separate for ever between himself and one whom he so dearly loved? Why would he not pledge himself at once to total abstinence? There was a time when he would have done so—that time when he spoke on the subject to the rector, and made the attempt at his own home. But now a spell seemed to hold him back. He would not or could not see the necessity of relinquishing that which he had come to crave and love more than his daily food.

"I must use it," he said to himself; "but there is no reason why I should abuse it."

He wrote to Mary and told her so. He told her that he was now fully alive to his own weakness, and that she might depend on his watchfulness and moderation, imploring her to give him one, and but one, more trial. He would watch, he would strive, he would pray to be strictly moderate. She should never have cause to reproach him again.

She replied:—

"DEAR FRANK,—It would be cruelty in me were I to hold out any hope to you that I can ever again be more to you than one who must always take a deep interest in your welfare, and must feel truly grateful to you for having saved her life. That you mean now to be all that you promise, I do not doubt; but that you really will be so, I dare not hope. You have been seen by me twice in such a condition as made me shrink from you with terror and disgust. Were we to be married, and you should be betrayed into excess, the first time, you would be overwhelmed; the second time, you would be ashamed and pained; the third time, you would feel it, but not very acutely. You would get used, by degrees, to my witnessing such degradation; it would be killing me, but it would be making less and less impression upon you. I dare not run the terrible risk. I dare not join myself to you in a bond which could never be severed, however aggravated might be my misery and your sin. Oh, Frank, my heart is well nigh broken! I have loved you, and do love you still. Let us be one in heaven, though we never can be so here. Pray, oh, pray for grace to resist your temptation! Ask to be made a true follower of the Lord Jesus, and you will be guided aright, and we shall meet then in that bright land where all shall rejoice together who have, by grace, fought the fight and won the victory here.—Sincerely yours, MARY OLIPHANT."

Frank read this letter over and over again, and groaned in the fulness of his distress. She had not asked him to become an abstainer. Was it because she felt that it was hopeless? He knew it to be so. He knew that if he signed the pledge he should only add a broken vow to his other sins. He felt that, dearly as he loved Mary, he could not forego all intoxicating drinks even for her sake. He dared not pray that he might be able to abstain, for he felt that he should not really wish for the accomplishment of such a prayer. Habitual indulgence had taken all the stiffness out of his will. And yet the thought of losing Mary was utter misery. He leaned his head on his hands, and gazed for a long time on her letter. At last there came a thought into his mind. All might not yet be lost. There was still one way of escape. He rose up comforted, and thrusting the letter into his pocket, sought out his mother. He found her alone. She looked at him with deep anxiety and pitying love, as well she might, when she marked the gloom that had settled down on his once happy face. Alas she knew its cause too well. She knew that he was on the downward path of intemperance, and she knew how rapid was the descent. She was well aware that his sinful excess had been the cause of the breaking off of his engagement with the rector's daughter. Oh, how her heart ached for him. She would have given all she possessed to see him what he once was. She was prepared for any sacrifice, if only he could be reclaimed before it should be too late.

"Dearest mother," he said, throwing himself down beside her, clasping her knees, and looking up imploringly into her face, "I'm a miserable creature, on the road to ruin, body and soul, unless something comes to stop me."

"Oh, my boy, my boy!" cried his mother, bursting into tears; "do not say so. You have gone astray; but so have we all, one way or other. There is hope for you if you return. Surely the evil habit cannot be already so strong upon you that you cannot summon strength and resolution to break through it."

"Oh, you do not, you cannot know what a helpless creature I am!" was his reply. "When once I begin to taste, every good resolution melts away in a moment."

"Then give up such things, and abstain altogether, my beloved Frank, if that be the case," said Lady Oldfield.

"I cannot," he replied bitterly. "I cannot keep from them, they must be kept from me, and then I should have some chance."

"But, my dear boy, how can that always be? You cannot expect your father to banish beer and wine from his table, and to refuse to set them before his guests. You cannot expect that he should debar himself the moderate use of these things because you have, unhappily, learned to take them immoderately."

"No. I cannot, of course. I cannot, and I do not expect it, and therefore I am come to put before you, my dearest mother, what I believe will be my only chance. You know that Hubert Oliphant is going to join his Uncle Abraham in South Australia. He sails in October. He is going by a total abstinence ship, which will not therefore carry any intoxicating drinks. Will you and my dear father consent to my going with Hubert? My unhappy taste would be broken through by the time the voyage was over, as I should never so much as see beer, or wine, or spirits; and the fresh sea-air would be a better tonic than porter, wine, or ale; so that you would have no need to fear about my health."

Lady Oldfield did not reply for several minutes. She was, at first, utterly confounded at such a proposal from the son whom she idolised, and she was on the point of at once scouting the idea as altogether wild and out of the question. But a few moments' reflection made her pause. Terrible as was the thought of the separation, the prospect of her son's becoming a confirmed drunkard was more terrible still. This plan, if carried out, might result in Frank's return to habitual sobriety. Ought she therefore to refuse her sanction absolutely and at once? At last she said,—

"And who, my dearest boy, has put such a strange thought into your head? And how long do you mean to remain away? And what are you to do when you reach Australia?"

"No one has suggested the thing to me," he replied. "It came into my mind as I was thinking over all the misery the drink has brought on me of late. If I could go with Hubert, you know what a friend and support I should have in him. I might remain in the colony two or three years, and then come back again, please God, a thoroughly sober man; and then perhaps dear Mary would relent, and give me back my old place in her heart again."

Lady Oldfield drew him close to her, and clasping her arms round him, wept long and bitterly.

"Oh, my boy, my Frank!" she exclaimed; "how shall I bear to part with you? Yet it may be that this is God's doing; that he has put this into your heart; and if so, if it should be for your deliverance from your unhappy habit, I dare not say 'No.' But I cannot tell what your father will say. I will put the matter before him, however, and I am sure he will do what is wise and right."

Sir Thomas did not refuse his consent. He had felt so keenly the disgrace which his son's increasing excesses were bringing upon the family, that, sorely as he grieved over the thoughts of parting with Frank, he was willing that he should join Hubert Oliphant in his voyage, hoping that the high character and Christian example of the rector's son might be of benefit to his poor unhappy and erring child. Frank's countenance brightened when he had obtained his father's consent, and he at once made known his purpose to Hubert Oliphant, and asked his advice and help, begging him also to intercede for him with Mary that she would allow him to hope that, if he returned thoroughly reformed, she would consent to their engagement being renewed. Hubert, as well as his father, had felt the deepest pity for Frank, in spite of his grievous falls, specially when they remembered how, but for his own mother's opposition, he might now have been one of their little temperance band, standing firm, happy himself, and helping to make others happy. They therefore gladly encouraged him to carry out his purpose, promising that Hubert should introduce him to his Uncle Abraham, who might find for him, while he remained in the colony, some employment suitable to his station, where Hubert and his uncle could support and strengthen him by companionship and counsel. And would Mary hold out any hopes? Poor Mary, she loved him still. Oh, how dearly! Could she refuse him all encouragement? No. But she dared not promise unconditionally to be to him as in former days. She would not renew the engagement now; but she would wait and see the issue of his present plans.

Thus matters stood, when the last week came that Frank and Hubert would spend in their English homes. Mary and Frank had met once or twice since his voyage had been decided on, but it was in the presence of others. These were sorrowful meetings, yet there was the glow of a subdued hope, to make them not altogether dark to those who, but for the miserable tyranny of the drink, might now have been bright with happy anticipations of the future.

And now it was a sweet autumn evening, when every sight and sound was plaintive with the foreshadowings of a coming winter—the sunset hues, the lights and shadows, the first decaying leaves, the notes of birds, the hum of insects. Everything was very still as Mary again trod the little path from the cottage of the poor woman whom she had been visiting on the evening of Frank's last sad fall. She had nearly reached the stile, her eyes bent on the ground, and her heart full of sorrowful memories and forebodings, when she was startled by hearing the sound of passionate sobbings. She raised her eyes. Kneeling by the stile, his head buried in his hands, was Frank Oldfield; his whole frame shook with the violence of his emotion, and she could hear her own name murmured again and again in the agony of his self-reproach or prayer. How sadly beautiful he looked! And oh, how her heart overflowed with pitying tenderness towards him.

"Frank," she said; but she could add no more.

He started up, for he had not heard her light tread. His hair was wildly tossed back, his eyes filled with tears, his lips quivering.

"You here, Mary," he gasped. "I little thought of this. I little thought to meet you here. I came to take a parting look at the spot where I had seen you last as my own. Here it was that I sinned and fooled away my happiness, and here I would pour out the bitterness of my fruitless sorrow."

"Not fruitless sorrow, I trust, dear Frank," she said gently. "It cannot be fruitless, if it be a genuine sorrow for sin. Oh, perhaps there is hope before us yet!"

"Do you say so, Mary? Do you bid me hope? Well, I will live on that hope. I ask no promise from you, I do not expect it. I am glad that we have met here, after all. Here you have seen both my degradation and my sorrow."

"Yes, Frank, and I am glad, too; it will connect this sad spot with brighter memories. God bless you. I shall never cease to pray for you, come what will. May that comfort you, and may you—may you,—" her tears choked her voice.

"Oh, one word more," he said imploringly, as, having accepted his arm in climbing the stile, she now relinquished it, and was turning from him—"One word more—one word of parting! Oh, one word such as once might have been!"

His hands were stretched towards her. They might never meet again. She hesitated for an instant. Then for one moment they were pressed heart to heart, and lip to lip—but for one moment, and then,— "Farewell," "Farewell."



CHAPTER NINE.

YOUNG DECISION.

One week later, and three men might be seen walking briskly along a by- street in Liverpool towards the docks. These were Hubert Oliphant, Frank Oldfield, and Captain Merryweather, commander of the barque Sabrina, bound for South Australia. The vessel was to sail next day, and the young men were going with the captain to make some final arrangements about their cabins. Hubert looked bright and happy, poor Frank subdued and sad. The captain was a thorough and hearty-looking sailor, brown as a coffee-berry from exposure to weather; with abundance of bushy beard and whiskers; broad-shouldered, tall, and upright. It was now the middle of October, just three days after the flight of Samuel Johnson from Langhurst, as recorded in the opening of our story. As the captain and his two companions turned the corner of the street they came upon a group which arrested their attention at once.

Standing not far from the door of a public-house was a lad of about fourteen years of age. He looked worn and hungry, yet he had not at all the appearance of a beggar. He was evidently strange to the place, and looked about him with an air of perplexity, which made it clear that he was in the midst of unfamiliar and uncongenial scenes. Three or four sailors were looking hard at him, as they lounged about the public-house door, and were making their comments to one another.

"A queer-looking craft," said one. "Never sailed in these waters afore, I reckon."

"Don't look sea-worthy," said another.

"Started a timber or two, I calculate," remarked a third.

"Halloa! messmate," shouted another, whose good-humoured face was unhappily flushed by drink, "don't lie-to there in that fashion, but make sail, and come to an anchor on this bench."

The lad did not answer, but stood gazing at the sailors in a state of utter bewilderment.

"Have you carried away your jawing-tackle, my hearty?" asked the man who had last addressed him.

"I can't make head nor tail of what you say," was the boy's reply.

"Well, what's amiss with you, then? Can you compass that?"

"Ay," was the reply; "I understand that well enough. There's plenty amiss with me, for I've had nothing to eat or drink since yesterday, and I haven't brass to buy anything with."

"Ah, I see. I suppose you mean by that foreign lingo that you haven't a shot in your locker, and you want a bit of summut to stow away in your hold."

"I mean," replied the lad, rather sulkily, "that I'm almost starved to death."

"Well, it's no odds," cried the other. "I can't quite make you out; but I see you've hoisted signals of distress: there, sit you down. Landlord, a glass of grog, hot, and sweet, and strong. Here, take a pull at that till the grog comes."

He handed to him a pewter-pot as he spoke.

The boy pushed it from him with a look of disgust.

"I can't touch it," he said. "If you'll give me a mouthful of meat instead, I'll thank you; and with all my heart too."

"Meat!" exclaimed the sailor, in astonishment, "what's the young lubber dreaming about? Come, don't be a fool; drink the ale, and you shall have some bread and cheese when you've finished your grog."

"Jack," expostulated one of his companions, "let the poor lad alone; he hasn't a mind for the drink, perhaps he ain't used to it, and it'll only make him top heavy. You can see he wants ballast; he'll be over on his beam-ends the first squall if he takes the ale and grog aboard."

"Avast, avast, Tom," said the other, who was just sufficiently intoxicated to be obstinate, and determined to have his own way. "If I take him in tow, he must obey sailing orders. Grog first, and bread and cheese afterwards; that's what I say."

"And I'd die afore I'd touch a drop of the drink," said the poor boy, setting his teeth firmly. "I've seen enough, and more nor enough, of misery from the drink; and I'd starve to skin and bone afore I'd touch a drop of it."

"Bravo, my lad, bravo!" cried Captain Merryweather, who had listened to the conversation with the greatest interest. "Come hither, my poor boy; you shall have a good meal, and something better than the grog to wash it down with."

"Oh, never heed Jack, captain," cried one of the other sailors; "he's half-seas over just now, and doesn't know which way he's steering. I'll see that the poor lad has something to eat."

"Thank you kindly, my man," replied the captain; "but he shall go with me, if he will."

"Ay, sir," said the boy thankfully, "I'll go with you, for I'm sure you speak gradely."

The whole party soon reached a temperance hotel, and here the captain ordered his young companion a substantial breakfast.

"Stay here, my lad," he said, "till I come back; I want to have a word with you. I am going with these gentlemen to the docks, but I shall be back again in half an hour. By the way, what's your name, my boy?"

A deep flush came over the other's face at this question. He stared at Captain Merryweather, and did not answer.

"I want to know your name."

"My name? Ah, well—I don't—you see—"

"Why, surely you haven't forgotten your own name? What do they call you?"

"Poor fellow!" said Hubert; "his hunger has confused his brain. He'll be better when he has had his breakfast."

But the boy had now recovered himself, and replied,—

"I ax your pardon, captain; my name's Jacob Poole."

"Well, Jacob, you just wait here half an hour, and I shall have something to say to you when I come back, which may suit us both."

When Captain Merryweather returned he found the boy looking out of the window at the streams of people going to and from the docks. His head was resting on his two hands, and it appeared to the captain that he had been weeping.

"Jacob," he cried, but there was no answer.

"Jacob Poole," again cried the captain, in a louder voice. The other turned round hastily, his face again flushed and troubled.

"Well, Jacob," said the captain, sitting down, "I suppose you're a teetotaller, from what I saw and heard to-day."

"Yes, to the back-bone," was the reply.

"Well, so am I. Now will you mind telling me, Jacob, what has brought you to Liverpool. I am not asking questions just for curiosity, but I've taken a liking to you, and want to be your friend, for you don't seem to have many friends here."

Jacob hesitated; at last he said,—

"Captain, you're just right. I've no friends here, nor am like to have. I can't tell you all about myself, but there's nothing wrong about me, if you'll take my word for it. I'm not a thief nor a vagabond."

"Well, I do believe you," said the other; "there's truth in your face and on your tongue. I flatter myself I know a rogue when I see one. Will you tell me, at any rate, what you mean to do in Liverpool?"

"That's easier asked nor answered," replied Jacob. "Captain, I don't mind telling you this much—I've just run away to Liverpool to get out of the reach of the drink. I am ready to do any honest work, if I can get it, but that don't seem to be so easy."

"Exactly so," said Captain Merryweather. "Now, what do you say, then, to going a voyage to Australia with me? I'm in want of a cabin-boy, and I think you'd suit me. I'll feed and clothe you, and I'll find you a situation over in Australia if you conduct yourself well on board ship; or, if you like to keep with me, I'll give you on the return voyage what wages are right."

The boy's eyes sparkled with delight. He sprang from his seat, grasped the captain's hand warmly between his own, and cried,—

"Captain, I'll go with you to the end of the world and back again, wage or no wage."

"I sail to-morrow," said the other; "shall you be ready?"

"Ready this moment," was the answer. "I have nothing of my own but what I stand in."

"Come along then with me," said his kind friend; "I'll see you properly rigged out, and you shall go on board with me at once."

They had not long left the hotel, and were passing along a back street on their way to the outfitter's, when a man came hastily out of a low public-house, and ran rather roughly against Captain Merryweather.

"Halloa, my friend," cried the sailor, "have a care; you should keep a brighter look-out. You've run me down, and might have carried away a spar or two."

The man looked round, and muttered something.

"I'm sorry to see you coming out of such a place, my man," added the captain.

"Well, but I'm not drunk," said the other.

"Perhaps not, but you're just on the right tack to get drunk. Come, tell me what you've had."

"I've only had seventeen pints of ale and three pennorth of gin."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed the captain, half out loud, as the man walked off with a tolerably steady step. "He says he's not drunk after taking all that stuff aboard. Jacob, you seem as if you knew something of him."

"Ay, captain," said Jacob, who had slunk behind the captain when he saw the man. "I do, for sure; but you must excuse my telling you who he is, or where he comes from."

"He's not a good friend or companion for any one, I should think," said the captain.

"He's no friend of mine," answered Jacob; "he's too fond of the drink. And yet he's called to be a sober man by many, 'cos he brings some of his wage home on the pay-night. Yet I've heard him say myself how he's often spent a sovereign in drink between Saturday night and Monday morning."

"And what do you suppose has brought him here?"

"I can't tell, unless the mayster he works for has sent him over on count of summat. It's more like, however, as he's come to see his sister as lives somewhere in these parts."

"And you'd rather he didn't know you are here, I suppose?"

"Just so, captain. There's them, perhaps, as'd be arter me if he were to tell 'em as he'd see'd me here; but I don't think as he did see me; he were half fuddled: but he never gets fairly drunk."

"Well, Jacob, I don't wish to pry into your own private concerns. I'll take it for granted that you're dealing honestly by me."

"You may be sure of that, captain. I'll never deceive you. I haven't done anything to disgrace myself; but I wish to get gradely out of the reach of such chaps as yon fellow you've just spoke to. I've had weary work with the drink, and I wishes to make a fresh start, and to forget as I ever had any belonging me. So it's just what'll suit me gradely to go with you over to Australia; and you must excuse me if I make mistakes at first; but I'll do my best, and I can't say anything beyond that."

By this time they had reached the outfitter's, where the captain saw Jacob duly rigged out and furnished with all things needful for the voyage. They had left the shop and were on their way to the docks, when a tall sailor-looking man crossed over to them. His face was bronzed from exposure, but was careworn and sad, and bore unmistakable marks of free indulgence in strong drinks.

"Merryweather, how are you, my friend?" he cried, coming up and shaking the captain warmly by the hand.

"Ah, Thomson, is that you?" said the other, returning the grasp. "I was very sorry indeed to hear of your misfortune."

"A bad business—a shocking business," said his friend, shaking his head despondingly. "Not a spar saved. Three poor fellows drowned. And all my papers and goods gone to the bottom."

"Yes, I heard something of it, and I was truly grieved. How did it happen?"

"Why, I'll tell you how it was. I don't know what it is, Merryweather, but you're a very lucky fellow. Some men seem born to luck: it hasn't been so with me. It's all gone wrong ever since I left Australia. We'd fair weather and a good run till we were fairly round the Horn; but one forenoon the glass began to fall, and I saw there was heavy weather coming. After a bit it came on to blow a regular gale. The sea got up in no time, and I had to order all hands up to reef topsails. We were rather short-handed, for I could hardly get men when I started, for love or money. Well, would you believe it?—half a dozen of the fellows were below so drunk that they couldn't stand."

"Ah, I feared," said Captain Merryweather, "that the drink had something to do with your troubles. But how did they manage to get so tipsy?"

"Oh, they contrived to get at one of the spirit-casks. They bored a hole in it with a gimlet, and sucked the rum out through a straw. There was nothing for it but to send up the steward, and Jim, my cabin-boy, along with the others who were on deck. But poor Jim was but a clumsy hand at it; and as they were lying out on the yard, the poor fellow lost his hold, and was gone in a moment. I never caught one look at him after he fell. Ay, but that wasn't all. About a week after, I was wanting the steward one morning to fetch me something out of the lazarette; so I called him over and over again. He came at last, but so tipsy that I could make nothing of him; and I had to start him off to the steerage, and take on another man in his place. He'd been helping himself to the spirits. It was very vexing, you'll allow; for he was quite a handy chap, and I got on very poorly afterwards without him. I don't know how you manage, but you seem always to get steady men."

"Yes," said Captain Merryweather; "because I neither take the drink myself nor have it on board."

"Ay, but I can never get on without my glass of grog," said the other.

"Then I'm afraid you'll never get your men to do without it. There's nothing like example—'example's better than precept.'"

"I believe you're right. But you haven't heard the end of my misfortunes, nor the worst either. It was a little foggy as we were getting into the Channel, and I'd given, of course, strict orders to keep a good look-out; so two of our sharpest fellows went forward when it began to get dark, and I had a steady man at the wheel. I'd been on deck myself a good many hours; so I just turned in to get a wink of sleep, leaving the first mate in charge. I don't know how long I'd slept, for I was very weary, when all in a moment there came a dreadful crash, and I knew we were run into. I was out and on deck like a shot; but the sea was pouring in like a mill-stream, and I'd only just time to see the men all safe in the Condor—the ship that ran into us—and get on board myself, before the poor Elizabeth went down head foremost. It's very strange. I hadn't been off the deck ten minutes, and that was the first time I'd gone below for the last sixteen hours. It's just like my luck. The captain of the Condor says we were to blame; and our first mate says their men were to blame. I can't tell how it was. It was rather thick at the time; but we ought to have seen one another's lights. Some one sung out on the other ship; but it was too late then, and our two poor fellows who were forward looking out were both lost. It's very strange; don't you think so?"

"It's very sad," replied the other; "and I'm heartily sorry for it. It's a bad job anyhow; and yet, to tell you the honest truth, I'm not so very much surprised, for I suspect that the drink was at the bottom of it."

"No, no; you're quite mistaken there. I never saw either the mate or the man at the wheel, or any of the men who were then on deck, drunk, or anything like it, during the whole voyage."

"That may be," said the other; "but I did not say it was drunkenness, but the drink, that I thought was at the bottom of it. The men may have been the worse for drink without being drunk."

"I don't understand you."

"No, I see you don't; that's the worst of it. Very few people do see it, or understand it; but it's true. A man's the worse for drink when he's taken so much as makes him less fit to do his work, whatever it may be. You'll think it rather strange, perhaps, in me to say so; but I do say it, because I believe it, that more accidents arise from the drink than from drunkenness, or from moderate drinking, as it is called, than from drunkenness."

"How so?"

"Why, thus. A man may take just enough to confuse him, or to make him careless, or to destroy his coolness and self-possession, without being in the least drunk; or he may have taken enough to make him drowsy, and so unfit to do work that wants special attention and watchfulness."

"I see what you mean," said the other.

"Perhaps you'd all been drinking an extra glass when you found yourselves so near home."

"Why, yes. To tell you the truth, we had all of us a little more than usual that night; and yet I'll defy any man to say that we were not all perfectly sober."

"But yet, in my way of looking at it," said Captain Merryweather, "you were the worse for liquor, because less able to have your wits about you. And that's surely a very serious thing to look at for ourselves, and our employers too; for if we've taken just enough to make us less up to our work, we're the worse for drink, though no man can say we're drunk. Take my advice, Thomson, and keep clear of the grog altogether, and then you'll find your luck come back again. You'll find it better for head, heart, and pocket, take my word for it."

"I believe you're right. I'll think of what you've said," was the reply; and they parted.

"Jacob, my lad," said Captain Merryweather, as they walked along, "did you hear what Captain Thomson said?"

"Ay, captain; and what you said too. And I'm sure you spoke nothing but the real truth."

"Well, you just mark that, Jacob. There are scores of accidents and crimes from drunkenness, and they get known, and talked about, and punished; but there are hundreds which come from moderate drinking, or from the drink itself, which are never traced. Ships run foul of one another, trains come into collision, houses get set on fire; and the drink is at the bottom of most of it, I believe, because people get put off their balance, and ain't themselves, and so get careless, or confused, or excited, and then mischief follows. And yet no one can say they're drunk; and where are you to draw the line? A man's the worse for drink long before he's anything like intoxicated; for it is in the very nature of the drink to fly at once to a man's brain. Ah, give me the man or lad, Jacob, that takes none. His head is clear, his hand's steady, his eye is quick. He's sure not to have taken too much, because he has taken none at all.—But here we are. There lies my good ship, the barque Sabrina. You shall come on board with me at once, and see your quarters."



CHAPTER TEN.

OUTWARD BOUND.

Six weeks had elapsed since the barque Sabrina had left the port of Liverpool. She was stealing along swiftly before a seven knot breeze on the quarter, with studding-sails set. It was intensely hot, for they had crossed the line only a few days since. Captain Merryweather had proved himself all that a captain should be—a thorough sailor, equal to any emergency; a firm but considerate commander; an interesting and lively companion, ever evenly cheerful, and watchful to make all around him comfortable and happy. Hubert Oliphant was full of spirits—happy himself, and anxious to make others the same; a keen observer of every natural phenomenon, and admirer of the varied beauties of ocean and sky; and, better still, with a heart ready to feel the bounty and love of God in everything bright, lovely, and grand. Poor Frank had become less sad; but his sorrow still lay heavy on his spirits. Yet there was hope for him to cling to; and he was rejoicing in the subduing of his evil habit, which was thus far broken through by his forced abstinence. Alas! he did not realise that a smouldering fire and an extinct one are very different things. He was sanguine and self-confident; he fancied that his resolution had gained in firmness, whereas it had only rested quiet, no test or strain having been applied to it; and, worst of all, he did not feel the need of seeking in prayer that grace from above which would have given strength to his weakness and nerve to his good resolves. And yet who could see him and not love him? There was a bright, reckless generosity in every look, word, and movement, which took the affections by storm, and chained the judgment. Jacob Poole had become his devoted admirer. Day by day, as he passed near him, and saw his sunny smile and heard his animated words, the young cabin-boy seemed more and more drawn to him by a sort of fascination. Jacob was very happy. The captain was a most kind and indulgent master, and he felt it a privilege to do his very best to please him. But his greatest happiness was to listen—when he could do so without neglecting his duty—to the conversations between Frank, Hubert, and the captain, as they sat at meals round the cuddy-table, or occasionally when in fair weather they stood together on the poop-deck; and it was Frank's voice and words that had a special charm for him. Frank saw it partly, and often took occasion to have some talk with Jacob in his own cheery way; and so bound the boy still closer to him.

It was six weeks, as we have said, since the Sabrina left Liverpool. The day was drawing to a close; in a little while the daylight would melt suddenly into night. Not a cloud was in the sky: a fiery glow, mingled with crimson, lit up the sea and heavens for a while, and, speedily fading away, dissolved, through a faint airy glimmer of palest yellow, into clear moonlight. How lovely was the calm!—a calm that rested not only on the sea, but also on the spirits of the voyagers, as the vessel slipped through the waters, gently bending over every now and then as the wind slightly freshened, and almost dipping her studding- sail boom into the sea, which glittered in one long pathway of quivering moonbeams, while every little wave, as far as the eye could reach, threw up a crest of silver. The captain stood near the binnacle. He was giving a lesson in steering to Jacob Poole, who felt very proud at taking his place at the wheel for the first time, and grasped the spokes with a firm hand, keeping his eye steadily on the compass. Frank and Hubert stood near, enjoying the lovely evening, and watching Captain Merryweather and the boy.

"Steady, my lad, steady," said the captain; "keep her head just south and by east. A firm hand, a steady eye, and a sound heart; there's no good without them."

"You'll soon make a good sailor of him, captain," said Hubert.

"Ay, I hope so," was the reply. "He's got the best guarantee for the firm hand and the steady eye in his total abstinence; and I hope he has the sound heart too."

"You look, captain, as if total abstinence had thriven with you. Have you always been a total abstainer?" asked Frank.

A shade of deep sadness came over the captain's face as he answered,—

"No, Mr Oldfield; but it's many years now since I was driven into it."

"Driven!" exclaimed Frank, laughing; "you do not look a likely subject to be driven into anything."

"Ay, sir; but there are two sorts of driving—body-driving and heart- driving. Mine was heart-driving."

"I should very much like to hear how it was that you were driven into becoming an abstainer," said Hubert; "if it will not be asking too much."

"Not at all, sir; and perhaps it may do you all good to hear it, though it's a very sad story.—Steady, Jacob, steady; keep her full.—It may help to keep you firm when you get to Australia. You'll find plenty of drinking traps there."

"I'm not afraid," said Frank. "But by all means let us have your story. We are all attention."

Hubert sighed; he wished that Frank were not so confident.

"Ay," said the captain, gazing dreamily across the water; "I think I see her now—my poor dear mother. She was a good mother to me. That's one of God's best gifts in this rough world of ours, Mr Oliphant. I've known many a man—and I'm one of them—that's owed everything to a good mother. Well, my poor mother was a sailor's wife; a better sailor, they say, than my father never stepped a plank. He'd one fault, however, when she married him, and only one; so folks like to put it. That fault was, that he took too much grog aboard; but only now and then. So my poor mother smiled when it was talked about in courting time, and they were married. My father was the owner of a small coasting-vessel, and of course was often away from home for weeks and sometimes for months together. A sister and myself were the only children; she was two years the oldest. My father used to be very fond of his children when he came home, and would bring us some present or other in his pocket, and a new gown, or cap, or bonnet for my mother. Yet somehow—I could hardly understand it then—she was oftener in tears than in smiles when he stayed ashore. I know how it was now: he'd learned to love the drink more and more; and she, poor thing, had got her eyes opened to the sin and misery it was bringing with it. He was often away at nights now. We children saw but little of him; and yet, when he was at home and sober, a kinder father, a better husband, a nobler-looking man wasn't to be seen anywhere. Well, you may be sure things didn't mend as time went on. My mother had hard work to make the stores hold out, for her allowance grew less as we children grew bigger. Only one good thing came of all this: when all this trouble blew on my poor mother like a hurricane, she shortened sail, and ran before the gale right into the heavenly port; or, as you'll understand me better, she took her sins and her cares to her Saviour, and found peace there. At last my sister grew up into a fine young woman, and I into a stout, healthy lad.—Steady, Jacob, steady; mind your helm.—My father didn't improve with age. He was not sober as often as he used to be; indeed, when he was on shore he was very rarely sober, and when he did stay an hour or two at home he was cross and snappish. His fine temper and manly bearing were gone; for the drink, you may be sure, leaves its mark upon its slaves. Just as it is with a man who has often been put in irons for bad conduct; you'd know him by his walk even when he's at liberty—he's not like a man that has always been free. Ah, my poor mother! it was hard times for her. She talked to my father, but he only swore at her. I shall never forget his first oath to her; it seemed to crush the light out of her heart. However bad he'd been before, he had always been gentle to her. But he was getting past that. She tried again to reason with him when he was sober. He was sulky at first; then he flew into a passion. And once he struck her. Yes; and I saw it, and I couldn't bear it. I was flying at him like a tiger, when my dear mother flung her arms round me, and chained me to the spot. My father never forgot that. He seemed from that day to have lost all love for me; and I must own that I had little left for him. My mother loved him still, and so did my sister; but they left off talking to him about his drunkenness. It was of no use; they prayed for him instead.—Steady, Jacob; luff a bit, my lad; luff you can."

"And did this make you an abstainer?" asked Hubert.

"No, sir; so far from it, that I was just beginning to like my grog when I could get it. I didn't see the evil of the drink then; I didn't see how the habit keeps winding its little cords round and round a man, till what begins as thin as a log-line, becomes in the end as thick as a hawser. My mother trembled for me, I knew; I saw her look at me with tears in her eyes many a time, when I came home talkative and excited, though not exactly tipsy. I could see she was sick at heart. But I hadn't learned my lesson yet; I was to have a terrible teacher.

"There was a young man who began to visit at our cottage when my sister was just about twenty. They used to call him—well, that don't matter; better his name should never be spoken by me. He was a fisherman, as likely a lad as you'd see anywhere; and he'd one boast that few could make, he had never been tipsy in his life; he was proud of it; he had got his measure, he said, and he never went beyond it. He laughed at teetotallers; they were such a sneaking, helpless lot, he said—why couldn't they take what was good for them, and stop there when they'd had enough; surely a man ought to be master of his own appetites—he was, he said; he could stop when he pleased. However, to make a long story short, he took a great fancy to my dear sister, and she soon returned it. Our cottage was near the sea, but on a hill-side some hundred feet or more above the beach. High ground rose behind it and sheltered it from the north and east winds. It had a glorious view of the ocean, and one of the loveliest little gardens that any cottage could boast of. The young man I spoke of would often sit with my sister in the little porch, when the roses and jessamine were in full flower all over it; and I used to think, as I looked at them, that a handsomer couple could never be made man and wife. Well, it was agreed that they should wait a few months till he was fully prepared to give her a home. My father just then was ashore, and took to the young man amazingly; he must have him spend many an evening at our cottage, and you may be sure that the grog didn't remain in the cupboard. My father had a great many yarns to spin, and liked a good listener; and as listening and talking are both dry work, one glass followed another till the young man's eyes began to sparkle, and my poor sister's to fill with tears; still, he always maintained, when she talked gently to him about it next day, that he knew well what he was about, that he never overstepped his mark, and that she might trust him. Ah, it was easy to talk; but it was very plain that his mark began to be set glass after glass higher than it used to be. At last, one night she couldn't hold any longer, and implored him to stop as he was filling another tumbler. Upon this my father burst out into a furious passion, and swore that, as he could find no peace at home, he'd go where he could find it,—that was to the public-house, of course. Out they both of them went, and we saw no more of them that night, you may be sure; and my mother and sister almost cried their hearts out. It was some days after this before my sister's lover ventured to show his face at our place, and then he didn't dare to meet her eye. She said very little to him; it was plain she was beginning to lose all hope; and she had reason too, for when the demon of drink gets a firm hold, Mr Oldfield, he'll not let go, if he can help it, till he's strangled every drop of good out of a man. But I mustn't be too long; there isn't much left to tell, however.—Steady, Jacob, my lad; keep her full.—You may suppose that we hadn't much more of my father's company, or of the young man's either; they found the public-house more to their mind; and so it went on night after night. Little was said about the wedding, and my sister never alluded to it even to us. At last October came. It was one lovely moonlight night, just such a night as this, quiet and peaceful. My father was to set out on one of his cruises next morning, and was expecting the mate to bring round his little vessel, and anchor her in the roads off the shore, in sight of our cottage. He had come home pretty sober to tea, bringing my sister's lover with him. After tea there were several things he had to settle with my mother; so, while they were making their arrangements, my sister and the young man had an earnest talk together. I didn't mean to listen, but I could overhear that he was urging her to fix an early day for the wedding, with many promises of amendment and sobriety, which the poor girl listened to with a half-unwilling ear, and yet her heart couldn't say, 'No.' At last my father cried, 'Come, my lad, we'll just go up to the top of the hill, and see if we can make out the Peggy. She ought to be coming round by this time.'

"'Oh, father,' cried my sister, 'don't go out again to-night.'

"'Nonsense!' he said, roughly; 'do you think I'm a baby, that can't take care of myself?'

"My mother said nothing; my sister looked at her lover with an imploring glance. I shall never forget it; there was both entreaty and despair in her eyes. He hesitated a moment, but my father was already out of the door, and loudly calling on him to follow.

"'I'll be back again in a few minutes,' he said; 'it won't do to cross your father to-night.'

"Ah, those few minutes! She went to the door. It was a most lovely night; there was a flood of moonlight poured out upon land and sea. All that God had made was as beautiful as if sin had never spoiled it. Just a little to the right of our cottage the ground rose up suddenly, and sloped up about a quarter of a mile to the top of a high cliff, from the edge of which was a sheer descent, almost unbroken, to the beach, of several hundred feet. It was a favourite spot of observation, for vessels could be seen miles off.

"My sister watched her father and lover in the clear moonlight to the top. There they stood for about half an hour, and then they turned. But which way? Home? It seemed so at first—the young man was plainly hesitating. At last he yielded to my father's persuasion, and both disappeared over the farther side of the high ground. My unhappy sister, with a wild cry of distress, came back into the cottage, and threw herself sobbing into a chair.

"'Oh, mother, mother!' she cried, 'they're off again—they're gone to the public-house; father'll be the death of him, body and soul.'

"My mother made no answer. She could not speak. She had no comfort to offer. She knew that my wretched father was the tempter. She knew that there was nothing but misery before her child.

"Oh, what a weary night that was! We sat for hours waiting, listening. At last we heard the sound of voices—two voices were shouting out snatches of sea-songs with drunken vehemence. We didn't need any one to tell us whose voices they were. My sister started up and rushed out. I followed her, and so did my mother. We could see now my father and the young man, sharp and clear in the moonlight, arm in arm at the top of the cliff. They were waving their arms about and shouting, as they swayed and staggered to and fro. Then they went forward towards the edge, and tried to steady themselves as they looked in the direction of the sea.

"'They'll be over!' shrieked my sister; 'oh, let us try and save them!'

"My mother sank senseless on the ground. For a moment my sister seemed as if she would do the same. Then she and I rushed together towards the cliff at the top of our speed. We could just see the two poor miserable drunkards staggering about for a little while, but then a sinking in the ground, as we hurried on, hid them from our sight. A few minutes more and we were on the slope at the top, but where were they? They were gone—where? I dared not let my sister go forward, but I could hardly hold her, till at last she sank down in a swoon. And then I made my way to the top of the cliff, and my blood seemed to freeze in my veins as I looked over. There they were on the rocks below, some hundred and fifty feet down. I shouted for help; some of the neighbours had seen us running, and now came to my relief. I left a kind woman with my unhappy sister, and hurried with some fishermen the nearest way to the beach. It was sickening work climbing to the place on to which my miserable father and his companion had pitched in their fall. Alas! they were both dead when we reached them, and frightfully mangled. I can hardly bear to go on," and the captain's voice faltered, "and yet I must complete my story. We made a sort of large hammock, wrapped them in it, and by the help of some poles carried them up to our cottage. It was terrible work. My sister did not shed a tear for days, indeed I scarcely ever saw her shed a tear at all; but she pined away, and a few short months closed her sad life."

The captain paused, and it was long before any one broke the silence. At last Hubert asked,—

"And your mother?"

"Ah, my mother—well, she did not die. She mourned over her daughter; but I can't say that she seemed to feel my father's loss so much, and I think I can tell you why," he added, looking very earnestly at the two young men. "Mark this, young gentlemen, and you Jacob, too—there's this curse about the drink, when it's got its footing in a home it eats out all warm affections. I don't think my mother had much love left for my father in her heart when he died. His drunkenness had nearly stamped out the last spark."

"It's a sad story indeed," said Frank, thoughtfully.

"Ay; and only one among many such sad stories," said the captain.

"And so you were led after this to become a total abstainer?"

"Yes; it was on the day of my sister's funeral. I came back to the cottage after the service was over with my heart full of sorrowful thoughts. My mother sat in her chair by the fire; her Bible was open before her, her head was bowed down, her hands clasped, and her lips moving in prayer. I heard them utter my own name.

"'Mother,' I said, springing forward, and throwing my arms round her, 'please God, and with his help, I'll never touch another drop of the drink from this day.'

"'God bless you, my son,' she said, with sobs. 'I've prayed him scores of times that my son might be preserved from living a drunkard's life, and dying a drunkard's death. I believe he's heard me. I know he has, and I'll trust him to make you truly his child, and then we shall meet in glory.' From that day to this not a drop of intoxicating liquor has ever passed my lips. But it's time to turn in; we shan't sleep the less sound because we're not indebted to the grog for a nightcap."

For some days after the captain had told his story, Frank Oldfield's manner was subdued and less buoyant than usual—something like a misgiving about his own ability to resist temptation, mingled with sad memories of the past. But his spirits soon recovered their usual brightness.

It was on a cloudless day, when scarcely a breath of air puffed out the sails, and the dog-vane drooped lazily, as if desponding at having nothing to do, that Hubert was looking listlessly over the stern, marking how the wide expanse of the sea was heaving and swelling like a vast carpet of silk upraised and then drawn down again by some giant hand. Suddenly he cried out,—

"What's that cutting its way behind us, just below the surface of the water?"

"A shark, most likely," said the mate, coming up. "Ay, sure enough it is," he added, looking over the stern. "Many a poor fellow has lost his life or his limbs by their ugly teeth. We'll bait a hook for him."

This was soon done. A large piece of rusty pork was stuck upon a hook attached to the end of a stout chain, the chain being fastened to a strong rope. All was now excitement on board. The captain, Hubert, Frank, and Jacob Poole looked over at the monster, whose dorsal fin just appeared above the water. He did not, however, seem to be in any hurry to take the bait, but kept swimming near it, and now and then knocked it with his nose.

"Just look at the water," cried Frank; "why, it's all alive with little fish. I never saw anything like it."

Indeed, it was an extraordinary sight. All round the vessel, and as deep down in the water as the eye could penetrate, the ocean was swarming with millions upon millions of little fishes, so that their countless multitudes completely changed the colour of the sea. Jacob Poole, who was standing close by the captain, now sprang into the boat which hung over the stern to get a better look at the shark and his minute companions.

"Have a care," shouted the captain, "or you'll be over, if you don't mind."

It was too late; for just as Jacob was endeavouring to steady himself in the boat, a sudden roll of the ship threw him completely off his balance. He tried to save himself by catching at a rope near him, but missed it, and fell right over the boat's side into the sea below.

All was instantly confusion and dismay, for every one on board knew that Jacob was no swimmer. Happily the ship was moving very sluggishly through the water, so one of the quarter-boats was instantly lowered from the davits. But long before it could row to the rescue help had come from another quarter. For one moment Hubert and his friend stood looking on transfixed with dismay, then, without an instant's hesitation, Frank sprang upon the taffrail, and plunged headlong into the sea. He was a capital swimmer, and soon reached poor Jacob. But now a cry of horror arose from those on board.

"The shark! the shark!"

The creature had disappeared at the moment of the cabin-boy's fall, the sudden and violent splash having completely scared him away for the instant; but scarcely had Frank reached the drowning lad, and raised him in the water, than the huge monster began to make towards them. They were so short a distance from the vessel that those on board could plainly see the movements of the great fish as he glided up to them.

"Splash about with all your might, for Heaven's sake," roared out the captain.

"All right," cried young Oldfield with perfect coolness, and at the same time making a violent commotion in the water all round him, which had the effect of daunting their enemy for the time. And now the quarter- boat was lowered, and reached them in a few vigorous strokes.

"Pull for your lives, my lads," shouted the mate, who was steering. "Here we are—steady—ship oars. Now then, Tom Davies, lay hold on 'em—in with 'em quick—there's the shark again. Jack, you slap away at the water with your oar. Ay, my friend, we've puzzled you this time—a near shave, though. Now then, all right. Give way, my lads. Jacob, my boy, you've baulked Johnny shark of his dinner this once."

They were soon alongside, and on deck, and were greeted by a lusty "Hurrah!" from captain and crew.

"Nobly done, nobly done, Mr Oldfield!" cried the captain, with tears in his eyes, and shaking Frank warmly by the hand. Hubert was also earnest in his thanks and congratulations. As for poor Jacob, when he had somewhat recovered from the utter bewilderment into which his unfortunate plunge had thrown him, he came up close to his rescuer and said,—

"Mr Oldfield, I can't thank you as I should, but I shan't forget as you've saved my life."

"All right, Jacob," said Frank, laughing; "you'll do the same for me when I want it, I don't doubt. But you have to thank our kind friends, the mate and his crew, as much as me, or we should have been pretty sure to have been both of us food for the fishes by this time."

And so it was that the cabin-boy's attachment to Frank Oldfield became a passion—a love which many waters could not quench—a love that was wonderful, passing the love of women. Each day increased it. And now his one earnest desire was to serve Frank on shore in some capacity, that he might be always near him. Day by day, as the voyage drew to its close, he was scheming in his head how to bring about what he so ardently desired; and the way was opened for him.

It was in the middle of January, the height of the Australian summer, that the Sabrina came in sight of Kangaroo Island, and in a little while was running along the coast, the range of hills which form a background to the city of Adelaide being visible in the distance. And now all heads, and tongues, and hands were busy, for in a few hours, if the tide should serve for their passing the bar, they would be safe in Port Adelaide.

"Well, Jacob; my lad," said Captain Merryweather to the cabin-boy, as he stood looking rather sadly and dreamily at the land, "you don't look very bright. I thought you'd be mad after a run ashore. Here comes the pilot; he'll soon let us know whether we can get into port before next tide."

When the pilot had taken charge of the ship, and it was found that there was water enough for them to cross the bar at once, the captain again called Jacob to him into the cuddy, where he was sitting with Hubert and Frank.

"I see, Jacob, my boy," he said, "that there's something on your mind, and I think I half know what it is. Now, I'm a plain straightforward sailor, and don't care to go beating about the bush, so I'll speak out plainly. You've been a good lad, and pleased me well, and if you've a mind to go home with me, I've the mind, on my part, to take you. But then I see Mr Oldfield here has taken a fancy to you, and thinks you might be willing to take service with him. Ah, I see it in your eyes, my lad—that settles it. I promised before we sailed that I'd find you a good situation out here, and I believe I've done it. Mr Oldfield, Jacob's your man."

Poor Jacob; the tears filled his eyes—his chest heaved—he crushed his cap out of all shape between his fingers—then he spoke, at first with difficulty, and then in a husky voice,—

"Oh, captain, I'm afraid you'll think I'm very ungrateful. I don't know which way to turn. You've been very good to me, and I couldn't for shame leave you. I'd be proud to serve you to the last day of my life. But you seem to have fathomed my heart. I wish one half of me could go back with you, and the other half stay with Mr Oldfield. But I'll just leave it with yourselves to settle; only you mustn't think, captain, as I've forgotten all your kindness. I'm not that sort of chap."

"Not a bit, my lad, not a bit," replied the captain, cheerily; "I understand you perfectly. I want to do the best for you; and I don't think I can do better than launch you straight off, and let Mr Oldfield take you in tow; and if I'm spared to come another voyage here, and you should be unsettled, or want to go home again, why, I shall be right glad to have you, and to give you your wages too." And so it was settled, much to the satisfaction of Frank and the happiness of Jacob.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

ABRAHAM OLIPHANT.

"And so you're my nephew Hubert," said a tall, middle-aged gentleman, who had come on board as soon as the Sabrina reached the port, and was now shaking Hubert warmly by the hand. "A hearty welcome to South Australia. Ah, I see; this is Mr Oldfield. My brother wrote to me about you. You're heartily welcome too, my young friend, for so I suppose I may call you. Well, you've come at a warm time of the year, and I hope we shall be able to give you a warm reception. And how did you leave your dear father, Hubert? You're very like him; the sight of your face brings back old times to me. And how are your brothers and sister? All well? That's right. Thank God for it. And now just put a few things together while I speak to the captain. I'll see that your baggage is cleared and sent up all right after you. My dog-cart's waiting, and will take your friend and yourself and what things you may want for a few days."

The speaker's manner was that of a man of good birth and education, with the peculiar tone of independence which characterises the old colonist. Hubert and Frank both felt at their ease with him at once.

It was arranged that Jacob Poole should remain with Captain Merryweather for a few days, and should then join his new master in Adelaide. After a very hearty leave-taking with the captain, the young men and Mr Abraham Oliphant were soon on shore.

There was no railway from the port to the city in those days, but travellers were conveyed by coaches and port-carts, unless they were driven in some friend's carriage or other vehicle. Driving tandem was much the fashion, and it was in this way that Hubert and Frank were making their first journey inland.

"Now, my dear Hubert, and Mr Oldfield, jump in there; give me your bags; now we're all right;" and away they started.

The first mile or two of their journey was not particularly inviting. They passed through Albert Town, and through a flat country along a very dusty road, trees being few and far between. A mile farther on and they saw a group of natives coming towards them with at least half-a-dozen ragged looking dogs at their heels. The men were lounging along in a lordly sort of way, entirely at their ease; one old fellow, with a grizzly white beard and hair, leaning all his weight on the shoulders of a poor woman, whom he was using as a walking-stick. The other women were all heavily-laden, some with wood, and others with burdens of various sorts, their lords and masters condescending to carry nothing but a couple of light wooden spears, a waddy, or native club, and a boomerang.

"Poor creatures!" exclaimed Hubert; "what miserable specimens of humanity; indeed, they hardly look human at all."

"Ah," said his uncle, "there are some who are only too glad to declare that these poor creatures are only brutes, that they have no souls. I've heard a man say he'd as soon shoot a native as a dingo; that is, a wild dog."

"But you don't think so, dear uncle?"

"Think so! no indeed. Their intellects are sharp enough in some things. Yes; it is very easy to take from them their lands, their kangaroo, and their emu, and then talk about their having no souls, just to excuse ourselves from doing anything for them in return. Why, those very men who will talk the most disparagingly of them, do not hesitate to make use of them; ay, and trust them too. They will employ them as shepherds, and even as mounted policemen. But let us stop a moment, and hear what they have to say."

He drew up, and the natives stopped also, grinning from ear to ear. They were very dark, a dusky olive colour; the older ones were hideously ugly, and yet it was impossible not to be taken with the excessive good humour of their laughing faces.

"What name you?" cried the foremost to Mr Oliphant.

"Abraham," was the reply.

"Ah, very good Abraham," rejoined the native; "you give me copper, me call you gentleman."

"Them you piccaninnies?" asked one of the women, pointing to Hubert and Frank.

"No," said Mr Oliphant; "there—there are some coppers for you; you must do me some work for them when you come to my sit-down."

"Gammon," cried the black addressed; "me plenty lazy."

"A sensible fellow," cried Frank laughing, as they drove on; "he knows how to look after his own interests, clearly enough; surely such as these cannot be past teaching."

"No indeed," said the other; "we teach them evil fast enough; they learn our vices besides their own. You may be sure they drink when they can. Ah, that curse of drunkenness! Did you think you had run away from it when you left England? Happy for you, Hubert, that you're an abstainer; and I suppose, Mr Oldfield, that you are one too."

"Not a pledged one," said Frank, colouring deeply, "but one in practice, I hope, nevertheless."

"Well, I tell you honestly that you'll find neither beer, wine, or spirits in my house. To everything else you are both heartily welcome.—Ah, that's not so pleasant," he exclaimed suddenly.

"Is there anything amiss?" asked Hubert.

"Oh, nothing serious!" was the reply; "only a little disagreeable; but we may perhaps escape it. We'll pull up for a moment. There; just look on a few hundred yards."

Ahead of them some little distance, in the centre of the road, a whirling current of air was making the dust revolve in a rapidly enlarging circle. As this circle widened it increased in substance, till at last it became a furious earth-spout, gathering sticks and leaves, and even larger things, into its vortex, and rising higher and higher in the air till it became a vast black moving column, making a strange rustling noise as it approached. Then it left the direct road, and rushed along near them, rising higher and higher in the air, and becoming less and less dense, till its base completely disappeared, and the column spent itself in a fine streak of sand some hundred feet or more above their heads.

"A pleasant escape," said Mr Oliphant; "we shouldn't have gained either in good looks or comfort if we had got into the thick of it."

"I should think not indeed," said Frank. "Do people often get into these whirlwinds, or earth-spouts, or whatever they should be called?"

"Sometimes they do," said the other, "and then the results are anything but agreeable. I have seen men go into them white—white jacket, white waistcoat, white trousers, white hat, and come out one universal brown— brown jacket, waistcoat, trousers, hat, eyebrows, whiskers, all brown."

"Anything but pleasant indeed," said Hubert. "But do they ever do serious mischief?"

"Not very serious, as far as I know," replied his uncle. "Once I knew of a pastry-cook's man who was caught in one of these whirlwinds; he had a tray of tarts on his head, and the wind caught the tray, and whirled it off, tarts and all. But here we are at the 'Half-way house;' people commonly can't go many miles here without the drink. They fancy that, because we live in a country which is very hot in summer, we want more to drink; but it's just the reverse. Drink very little of anything in the specially hot days, and you'll not feel the want of it."

And now, after a further drive of three or four miles, the outskirts of the city of Adelaide were nearly reached, and the distant hills became more plainly visible.

"We shall cross the river by the ford at the back of the jail," said Mr Oliphant, "for there's very little water in the river now."

"And is this the river Torrens?" asked Hubert, with a slight tone of incredulity in his voice.

"You may well ask," replied his uncle, laughing. "Torrens is certainly an unfortunate name, for it leads a stranger naturally to look for a deep and impetuous stream. Some gentleman from Melbourne, when he first saw it, was highly incensed and disgusted, and exclaimed, 'Is this crack in the earth your river Torrens?'"

"But I suppose," inquired Frank, "it is not always as shallow as now?"

"No indeed," said the other; "I've seen it many a time a real Torrens. When it comes rushing down, swollen by numberless little streams from the hills, it will carry almost everything before it. Bridges, and strong ones too, it has swept away, and you may judge both of its violence and of the height to which it rises at such times, when I tell you that, when a flood has subsided, you may sometimes look up and see a dead horse sticking in the fork of a tree which had for a time been nearly under water. And I've often thought that the drink is like this stream; people will scarce credit at first that it can do so much mischief—it's only a little drop, or a glass or two, but the drop becomes a stream, and the glass a mighty river, and down goes all before it, money, home, love, character, peace, everything. But see, that's the jail on our left now. If there were more total abstainers, we shouldn't want such a costly building, nor so many policemen, as we do now. Here, as in the old country, the drink is at the bottom of nine- tenths of the crime. And now we're just coming up to the top of Hindley Street. Look down it; it's a busy street; you can see right away through Rundle Street, which is a continuation of it, to the Park Lands beyond. Now, just take a fact about the drinking habits of this colony. You'll suppose, of course, that this street wants lighting at night. Well; how is this done? We have no gas as yet; no doubt we shall have it by-and-by. Well, then, look along each side of the street, and you'll see ordinary lamps projecting from houses at tolerably regular intervals. These houses are all public-houses. Every publican is bound by law to keep a lamp burning outside his house every dark night; and these lamps light the street very creditably. I use the word 'creditably' simply in reference to the lighting; doesn't that speak volumes?"

"Yes, indeed," said Hubert; "I fear it tells of abundant crime and misery."

"It does. But we mustn't dwell on the dark side now, for I want this to be a bright day for us all. You see we've some nice shops in Hindley Street."

"Yes," said Frank; "but what a remarkable variety of style in the houses; there are no two of them, scarcely, alike in size, shape, or height. They remind me rather of a class of boys in our dame school at home, where big and little boys, tidy and ragged, stand side by side in one long row."

"You are rather severe upon us," said Mr Oliphant laughing; "but we are gradually improving; there is, however, plenty of room yet for improvement, I allow."

And now they turned into King William Street, and drew up at the front of a large store.

"This is my business place," said the merchant; "but I shall not ask you to look at it now; we must be off again immediately for my country residence among the hills. Here, James, give the horses a little water; now then, let us start again."

A few minutes more and they were rapidly crossing the Park Lands.

"These are gum trees, I suppose?" asked Hubert.

"Yes, they are," said his uncle; "but not worth much, either for timber, ornament, or shade. You wouldn't get much relief from the heat under the poor shadow of their tassel-like foliage."

"What a very strange noise!" exclaimed Frank; "it seems as if a number of stocking-looms were at work in the air."

"See now," said Mr Oliphant, "the force of habit. I'm so used to the sound, that I was utterly unconscious of it. It is made by the cicada, an insect very common in this country. And now, where do you suppose we're coming to? This little village or township before us is Norwood, and then comes Kensington. I've no doubt it will strike you as one of the oddest things in this colony, till you get used to it, though, of course, it isn't peculiar to this colony, how places are made close neighbours here, which are very widely separated in the old country, from which they are borrowed."

"But why not retain the native names?" asked Hubert.

"Ah, why not, indeed? What can be more musical in sound than Yatala, Aldinga, Kooringa, Onkaparinga. But then, we could not always find native names enough; and, besides this, the Englishman likes to keep the old country before him, by giving his place some dear familiar name that sounds like home."

In about another half hour they reached their destination among the hills.

"The Rocks," as Mr Abraham Oliphant's place was called, was situated on a hill-side, high above the valley, but on a moderate slope. A stout post-and-rail fence surrounded the estate, and one of a more compact nature enclosed the more private grounds. The house was large, and covered a considerable surface, as there were no rooms above the basement floor. The front windows commanded a magnificent view of the city of Adelaide, with its surrounding lands, suburbs, and neighbouring villages, and of the sea in the extreme distance. At the back was a remarkable group of rocks, from which the estate took its name; these leaned on the hill-side, and were encased in a setting of wild shrubs and creeping plants of extraordinary beauty. A stream of purest spring water perpetually flowed through a wide cleft in these rocks, and afforded a deliciously cool supply, which never failed in the hottest summer. The house was surrounded by a wide verandah, which, like the building itself, was roofed with shingles, and up the posts and along the edge of which there climbed a profusion of the multiflora rose. The garden sloped away from the house, and contained an abundance of both flowers and fruits. There was the aloe, and more than one kind of cactus, growing freely in the open air, with many other plants which would need the hothouse or greenhouse in a colder climate. Fig-trees, vines, standard peach, and nectarine trees were in great abundance, while a fence of the sharp Kangaroo Island acacia effectually kept all inquisitive cattle at a respectful distance. The inside of the house was tastefully but not unduly furnished, ancient and modern articles being ranged side by side in happy fraternity; for a thorough colonist suits his own taste, and is tolerably independent of fashion.

"Welcome once more to Australia!" exclaimed Mr Oliphant to his young companions; "and more especially welcome to 'the Rocks.' Come in: here, let me introduce you to my eldest daughter and youngest son—Jane and Thomas, here's your cousin Hubert; and here's his friend, Mr Frank Oldfield; you must give them a hearty welcome."

All parties were soon at their ease together. A sumptuous dinner-tea was soon spread on the table of the dining-room—the windows of which apartment commanded a view, across the valley, of the city and distant sea.

Mr Oliphant was a widower, with two daughters and four sons. Jane had taken her mother's place; the two eldest sons were married, and settled in other parts of the colony; the third son lived with his younger sister at a sheep-station about twenty-five miles up the country; the youngest son, Thomas, a boy about fifteen years old, was still at home, and rode in daily to the collegiate school, returning in the evening.

"You'll meet your other cousins before long, I hope," said his uncle to Hubert. "They know, of course, that you are coming; and when I send them word that you are actually come, we shall have them riding in at an early day. I suppose you're used to riding yourself? Ah, that's right; then you're pretty independent. Horseflesh is cheap enough here, but it isn't always of the choicest quality; however, I can furnish you with what you'll want in that way. All your cousins ride, of course, by a sort of colonial instinct. An Australian and his horse almost grow together like a centaur."

"And do you ride much, Cousin Jane?" asked Hubert.

"Oh, never mind the 'cousin;' you must drop it at once," said Mr Oliphant. "It's Jane, and you're Hubert. But I beg Jane's pardon for smothering her answer."

"Oh yes, Hubert," replied his cousin; "I ride, as a matter of course; we should never get over much ground, especially in the hot weather, if we walked as much as people seem to do in England. But I have not yet heard how you left my dear aunt and uncle. Seeing you seems half like seeing them; I've heard so much of them."

"I suppose you hardly venture out kangaroo-hunting, Miss Oliphant?" asked Frank.

"I have done so once or twice in the north," she replied; "but the kangaroo is not fond of so many white faces near his haunts, so he has retired from these parts altogether."

"And you find you can all stand total abstinence here?" asked Hubert of his uncle.

"Stand it!" exclaimed Mr Oliphant; "I should think so. Why, my dear nephew, it don't need standing; it's the drink I couldn't stand. You should see the whole lot of us when we meet at one of our great family gatherings. Well, it's not quite the thing perhaps for a father to say—and yet I fancy it's not very far from the truth—that you'll not see a stouter, a better grown—Jane, shall I say handsomer?—I certainly may say a healthier, family anywhere; and not one of us is indebted to any alcoholic stimulant for our good looks."

"You have always, then, been an abstainer since you came to the colony?" asked Frank.

"No, I have not; more's the pity," was the reply; "but only one or two of my children remember the day when I first became an abstainer. From the oldest to the youngest they have been brought up without fermented stimulants, and abhor the very sight of them."

"And might I ask," inquired Frank, "what led to the change in your case, if the question is not an intrusive one?"

"Oh, by all means; I've nothing to conceal in the matter," said Mr Oliphant; "the story is a very simple one. But come, you must make a good tea; listening is often as hungry work as talking. Well, the circumstances were just these: when I was left a widower, more than fourteen years ago, Jane was about twelve years old and Thomas only six months; I was then a moderate drinker, as it is called—that is to say, I never got drunk; but I'm sure if any one had asked me to define 'moderation,' I should have been sorely puzzled to do so; and I am quite certain that I often exceeded the bounds of moderation, not in the eyes of my fellow-creatures, but in the eyes of my Creator—ay, and in my own eyes too, for I often felt heated and excited by what I drank, so as to wish that I had taken a glass or two less,—yet all this time I never overstepped the bounds, so as to lose my self-control. At this time I kept a capital cellar—I mean a cellar largely stocked with choice wines and spirits. I did not live then at 'the Rocks,' but in a house on the skirts of the city. You may be sure that I needed a good nurse to look after so many growing children who had just lost their dear mother, and I was happy enough to light upon a treasure of a woman—she was clean, civil, active, faithful, honest, forbearing, and full of love to the children; in a word, all that I could desire her to be. She took an immense deal of care off my hands, and I could have trusted her with everything I had. Months passed by, and I began to give large dinner- parties—for I was rather famous for my wines. Besides this, I was always having friends dropping in, happy to take a glass. All went on well—so it seemed—till one afternoon a maid came running into my sitting-room and cried out, 'Oh, sir, nurse is so very ill; what must we do?' I hurried up-stairs. There was the poor woman, sure enough, in a very miserable state. I couldn't make it out at all.

"'Send for a doctor at once!' I cried. In a little while the doctor came. I waited most anxiously for his report. At last he came down, and the door was closed on us.

"'Well, doctor,' I cried, in great anxiety; 'nothing very serious, I hope? I can ill afford to lose such a faithful creature.'

"I saw a curious smile on his face, which rather nettled me, as I thought it very ill-timed. At last he fairly burst out into a laugh, and exclaimed, 'There's nothing the matter with the woman, only she's drunk.'

"'Drunk!' I exclaimed with horror; 'impossible!'

"'Ay, but it's both possible and true too,' said the doctor; 'she'll be all right, you'll see, in a few hours.'

"And so she was. I then spoke out plainly and kindly to her. Oh, I shall never forget her misery and shame. She made no attempt to deny her fault, or even excuse it; she was heart-broken; she said she must go at once. I urged her to stay, and to turn over a new leaf. I promised to overlook what had passed, and told her that she might soon regain her former place in my esteem and confidence. But I could not keep her; she could not bear to remain, much as she loved the children; she must go elsewhere and hide her disgrace.

"'But how came you to contract such a habit?' said I. And then she told me that she began by finishing what was left in the glasses of my friends and myself after dinner; then, as I never locked up the cellaret—the thirst becoming stronger and stronger—she helped herself from the bottles, till at last she had become a confirmed drunkard. I pitied her deeply, as you may well understand; and would have kept her on, but nothing would induce her to stay. However, I had learned a lesson, and had made up my mind: I was determined that thenceforward no one should ever sow the first seeds of drunkenness in my house, or have any countenance in drinking from my example. The very morning the unhappy woman left, I made a vigorous onslaught on the drink.

"'Fetch up the cellar!' I cried; and the cellar was forthwith fetched up. Beer barrels, wine bottles and spirit-bottles, dozens of pale ale and bitter beer, were soon dragged into light.

"'Now, fetch me the kitchen-poker!' I shouted; it was brought me, and I commenced such a smashing as I should think has never been witnessed before, nor is likely to be witnessed again. Right and left, and all round me, the yard was flooded with malt liquors, spirits and wines. Then I knocked out the bungs of the casks, and joined their contents to the flood. You may suppose there was some little staring at all this, but it mattered nothing to me. I was resolved that what had ruined my poor nurse should never ruin any one else at my cost, or in my house; so from that day to this no alcoholic stimulant has passed my lips; nor been given by me to man, woman, or child; nor, please God, ever shall be.—Now, my dear young friends, you have had the history of what first led me to become a total abstainer."

There was a silence for several minutes, which was at last broken by Hubert's asking,—

"And what became of the unhappy woman, dear uncle?"

"Ah! don't ask me. She went from bad to worse while she remained in the colony. For so it commonly is with drunkards, but most of all with female drunkards. I've known—and I thank God for it—many a reformed male drunkard; but when women take decidedly to drinking, it is very rare indeed to see them cured—at least, that has been my experience. I got poor nurse away with a friend of mine who was going in a temperance ship to England, hoping that the habit might be broken off during the voyage. But, alas! she broke out again soon after reaching home, and died at last a miserable death in a workhouse. But I see you look rather fagged, Mr Oldfield. Shall we take a turn in the garden before it gets dark, and then perhaps you'll like a little music?"

And now we must leave Abraham Oliphant and Australia for a while, and return to Langhurst, and some of the earlier characters of our story.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

AN EXPLOSION IN THE PIT.

"No letter yet from our Sammul," cried Betty, wearily and sadly, as she came from the mill on a dreary night in the November after her brother's sudden departure. "I thought as how he'd have been sure to write to me. Well, I suppose we must make ourselves content till he's got over the sea. But oh, it'll be weary work till we've heard summat from him."

"Hush, hush, there's a good bairn," said her mother, though the tears were all the while running down her own cheeks as she spoke; "don't take on so; you'll drive your fayther clean crazy. He's down in the mouth enough already. Come, don't fret in that fashion, Thomas; Sammul'll come back afore long: you've been crouching down by the hearth-stone long enough. If you'll be guided by me, you'll just take a drop of good ale, it'll liven you up a bit; you want summat of the sort, or you'll shrivel up till you've nothing but skin on your bones."

"Ale!" cried Thomas, indignantly; "ale'll not make me better—ale won't make me forget—ale won't bring back our Sammul, it's driven him far enough away."

"Well," said his wife, soothingly, "you must go your own way; only, if you keep a-fretting of that fashion, you'll not be able to do your work gradely, and then we shall all have to starve, and that'll be worse for you still."

"Better starve," replied her husband moodily, "nor ruin body and soul with the drink; I'll have no more of it."

"Well, you can please yourself;" replied Alice, "so long as you don't take me with you. But I must have my drop of beer and my pipe, I can't live without 'em; and so you may rest content with that; it's the truth, it is for sure."

"Mother," said Betty, mournfully, "can you really talk in that fashion to fayther, when you know how the drink's been the cause of all the misery in our house, till it's driven our poor Sammul away to crouch him down on other folk's hearth-stones in foreign parts? I should have thought we might all have learnt a lesson by this time."

"It's no use talking, child," replied her mother; "you go your way, and take your fayther with you if he's a mind, but don't think to come over me with your talk; I'm not a babe, I can take care of myself. The drink's good enough in moderation, and I'm going to be moderate. But lads and wenches is so proud now-a-days that mothers has to hearken and childer does the teaching."

Poor Betty! she sighed, and said no more. Johnson also saw that it was no use reasoning with his wife. Her appetite for the drink was unquenchable. It was clear that she loved it better than husband, children, home, conscience, soul. Alas! poor Thomas's was a heavy burden indeed. Could he only have been sure that his son was alive and well, he could have borne his troubles better; but now he seemed crushed to the very earth. And yet, strange as it might seem, he did not feel tempted to fly to the drink again for consolation; he rather shrank from the very sight and thought of it. Ah, there were many prayers being offered up for him; unseen hands were guiding him, and in his home was the daily presence of one who was indeed a help and comfort to him. He clung to Betty now, and she to him, with a peculiar tenderness. Her heart was full of the warm glow of unselfish love, and his was learning to expand and unfold under the influence of her bright example. Theirs was a common sorrow and a common hope, as far as Samuel was concerned. Why had he not written to them from Liverpool, or from whatever port he had sailed from? That he had gone beyond the sea, they were both firmly convinced. Betty, of course, had her own special sorrow. She could not forget that terrible night—she could not forget the knife and the blood—though she was still fully persuaded that her brother had not laid violent hands on himself. But oh, if he would only write, what a load of misery would be taken off both their hearts; yet no letter came. November wore away, December came and went, the new year began, still there was no news of Samuel. Ned Brierley did all he could to console the unhappy father and daughter, and with some success. He was very urgent with Thomas to sign the pledge, and thus openly join himself to the little band of total abstainers, and Thomas had pretty nearly made up his mind to do so. He had hesitated, not so much because he dreaded the sneers and jeers of his companions—he had become callous to those— but he shrank from encountering the daily, wearing, gnawing trial of his wife's taunts and reproaches; for the restless uneasiness of a conscience not yet quite seared into utter insensibility made the unhappy woman doubly bitter in her attacks upon abstinence and abstainers. And thus matters were when February opened.

It was on a clear frosty evening in the beginning of that month that Betty was returning from the mill. They were running short time that week, and she was coming home about an hour earlier than usual. The ground was hard and crisp, and the setting sun sank a misty red, while a greyish-yellow tint overspread the whole horizon. Betty toiled slowly and listlessly up the hill, the old weight still on her heart. She had nearly reached her home, when a sound fearfully loud and awful, like the discharge of the cannon of two conflicting armies underground in one vast but muffled roar, made her heart almost stand still with terror. The next instant a huge body of sulphurous smoke leaped high into the air from one of the pit-mouths. In a moment the dreadful cry arose, "The pit's fired!"

The next minute men, women, and children poured out from houses and cottages, horror and dismay on every face. Near two hundred men and boys were down that pit; scarce a house but had one or more below. Oh, who could adequately describe the dreadful scene of misery, wailing; and confusion which followed!

Betty knew that her father was down, and she felt that in him all she had to cling to on earth was now, perhaps, torn from her for ever. Men and women rushed past her towards the pit's mouth.

"Lord help us," groaned one poor mother; "our Thomas and Matthew's down."

"Fayther's there too," wailed Betty. "Oh, the Lord keep him, and bring him up safe."

"Where's our Bill?—oh, have you seen anything of our Bill?" shrieked another poor distracted mother.

Then came crowds of men, with overlookers and policemen. Then a hasty consultation was held as to what must be done.

"Who'll volunteer to go down with me and send the poor fellows up?" cries the overlooker. Three men come forward, and step with him into the tub; not a word do they say, but they look quite calm and self- possessed—they have a work to do, and they will do it. And now the women are clustered round on the pit-bank in haggard expectation, the very picture of woe, some wild in their cries, others rocking themselves to and fro to still, if it may be, their misery; and others bowed down to the earth, the very image of mute despair. And now the wheels rapidly revolve, the rope runs swiftly, at last it slackens speed. The tub reaches the top—two ghastly forms are lifted from it—the women, with straining eyes, pressing forward to look. Oh, what a sight! the fiery stream has scorched the faces and limbs of the poor men almost out of knowledge. Again the tub descends, again other sufferers are raised, and still the same sad work continues hour after hour, far into the night. Some of those brought up are quite dead, poor blackened corpses; others still live, and are borne home, moaning piteously. From the limbs of many the skin peels with a touch. Some, less terribly injured, run and leap like madmen when they reach the open fresh air; some come up utterly blinded. And oh, what a vale of tears is that village of Langhurst the livelong night! Some call in vain for fathers, husbands, brothers; they have not yet been found. Some wring their hands over bodies which can never live again till the resurrection morning; some lovingly tend those who lie racked with agony on their beds, every limb writhing with fiery anguish; while some poor victims are so scorched and blackened that none can be found to claim them—one can only be known by his watch-chain, so completely is he burnt out of all remembrance. And what of poor Johnson? Hour after hour Betty and her mother watched near the pit's mouth, sick with sorrow and suspense, pressing forward as each fresh tub-load landed its miserable burden, still to be disappointed; while the wailings, the cries, the tears of those who claimed the dead, the dying, the scorched, on every fresh arrival, only added fuel to their burning grief. At last, about midnight, three men were brought up and laid on the bank, all apparently lifeless.

"Oh, there's fayther!"

"Oh, there's Thomas!" burst from the lips of Betty and her mother.

"Oh, take him home, take him home, live or dead," entreated Betty.

He was placed accordingly on a shutter, and carried by four men to his home. There they laid the body down on the couch, and left it alone with the mother and daughter. Alice wrung her hands in the bitterest distress.

"Oh, he's dead, he's dead; he'll never speak to us any more."

"Mother, hush!" said Betty, softly; "he's not dead, I can see his lips move and his breast heave. Maybe the Lord'll be merciful to us, and spare him. O Father in heaven," she cried, throwing herself on her knees, "do hear us, and spare poor fayther, for Jesus' sake."

The sufferer uttered a deep groan.

"Ay, ay, Betty," cried her mother, "the Lord be praised, there's life in him yet. Run to old Jenny's, and ask her to come and help us. Her master's all right; she'll be glad to give a helping hand to a neighbour in trouble."

But there was no need to send for assistance, for in a minute after, the cottage was filled with women, eager to use both hands and tongues in the sufferer's service. They carried him to his bed, and gently removed his clothes from him, though not without great difficulty, for he was fearfully burnt; and the act of taking off his clothing caused him great agony, as the skin came away with some of his inner garments. At last he was made as comfortable as was possible under the circumstances, till the doctor should come and dress his burns. Betty sat watching him, while her mother and the other women gathered round the fire below, with their pipes and their drink, trying to drown sorrow. She, poor girl, knew where to seek a better consolation; she sought, and found it. At last her mother's step was again on the stairs; she came up unsteadily, and with flushed face approached the bed where her husband lay. She had a mug of spirits in her hand.