As she was about to issue from her cottage, Henry met her, and clasped her in his arms. The meeting would have doubtless been a warmer one had the mother known what a narrow escape her son had so recently had. But Mrs. Stuart was accustomed to part from Henry for weeks at a time, and regarded this return in much the same light as former home-comings, except in so far as he had news of their lost friends to give her. She welcomed him therefore with a kiss and a glad smile, and then hurried him into the house to inquire about the result of the voyage.

"I have already heard of your success in finding Alice and our friends. Come, tell me more."

"Have you heard how nearly I was lost, mother?"

"Lost!" exclaimed the widow, in surprise; "no, I have heard nothing of that."

Henry rapidly narrated his escape from the wreck of the Wasp, and then, looking earnestly in his mother's anxious face he said, slowly: "But you do not ask for Gascoyne, mother. Do you know that he is now in the jail?"

The widow looked perplexed. "I know it," said she, "I was just going to see him when you came in."

"Ah, mother," said Henry, reproachfully, "why did you not tell me sooner about Gascoyne?"

He was interrupted here by Corrie and Alice rushing into the room, the latter of whom threw herself into the widow's arms and burst into tears, while Master Corrie indulged in some eccentric bounds and cheers by way of relieving his feelings. For some time Henry allowed them to talk eagerly to each other; then he told Corrie and Alice that he had something of importance to say to his mother, and led her into an adjoining room.

Corrie had overheard the words spoken by Henry just as he entered, and great was his curiosity to know what was the mystery connected with the pirate captain. This curiosity was intensified when he heard a half-suppressed shriek in the room where mother and son were closeted. For one moment he was tempted to place his ear to the keyhole! But a blush covered his fat cheeks at the very thought of acting such a disgraceful part. Like a wise fellow, he did not give the tempter a second opportunity, but, seizing the hand of his companion, said:

"Come along, Alice; we'll go seek for Bumpus."

Half an hour afterwards the widow stood at the jail door. The jailer was an intimate friend, and considerately retired during the interview.

"O Gascoyne! has it come to this?" She sat down beside the pirate, and grasped one of his manacled hands in both of hers.

"Even so, Mary; my hour has come. I do not complain of my doom. I have brought it on myself."

"But why not try to escape?" said Mrs. Stuart, earnestly. "There are some here who could aid you in the matter."

Here the widow attempted to reason with Gascoyne, as her son had done before, but with similar want of success. Gascoyne remained immovable. He did indeed betray deep emotion while the woman reasoned with him, in tones of intense earnestness; but he would not change his mind. He said that if Montague, as the representative of the law, would set him free in consideration of what he had recently done, he would accept of liberty; but nothing could induce him to escape.

Leaving him in this mode, Mrs. Stuart hurried to the cottage where Montague had taken up his abode.

The young captain received her kindly. Having learned from Corrie all about the friendship that existed between the widow and Gascoyne, he listened with the utmost consideration to her.

"It is impossible," said he, shaking his head; "I cannot set him free."

"Do his late services weigh nothing with you?" pleaded the widow.

"My dear madam," replied Montague, sorrowfully, "you forget that I am not his judge. I have no right to weigh the circumstances of his case. He is a convicted and self-acknowledged pirate. My only duty is to convey him to England, and hand him over to the officers of justice. I sympathize with you, indeed I do; for you seem to take his case to heart very much; but I cannot help you. I must do my duty. The Foam will be ready for sea in a few days. In it I shall convey Gascoyne to England."

"O Mr. Montague! I do take his case to heart, as you say, and no one on this earth has more cause to do so. Will it interest you more in Gascoyne, and induce you to use your influence in his favor, if I tell you that—that—he is my husband?"

"Your husband!" cried Montague, springing up, and pacing the apartment with rapid strides.

"Aye," said Mrs. Stuart, mournfully, covering her face with her hands. "I had hoped that this secret would die with me and him; but in the hope that it may help, ever so little, to save his life, I have revealed it to you."

"Believe me, the secret shall be safe in my keeping," said Montague, tenderly, as he sat down again, and drew his chair near to that of Mrs. Stuart. "But, alas! I do not see how it is possible for me to help your husband. I will use my utmost influence to mitigate his sentence; but I cannot, I dare not set him free."

The poor woman sat pale and motionless while the captain said this. She began to perceive that all hope was gone, and felt despair settling down on her heart.

"What will be his doom," said she, in a husky voice, "if his life is spared?"

"I do not know. At least I am not certain. My knowledge of criminal law is very slight, but I should suppose it would be transportation for—"

Montague hesitated, and could not find it in his heart to add the word "life."

Without uttering a word, Mrs. Stuart rose, and, staggering from the room, hastened with a quick, unsteady step toward her own cottage.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

A PECULIAR CONFIDANT—MORE DIFFICULTIES, AND VARIOUS PLANS TO OVERCOME THEM.

When Alice Mason was a little child, there was a certain tree near her father's house to which, in her hours of sorrow, she was wont to run and tell it all the grief of her overflowing heart. She firmly believed that this tree heard and understood and sympathized with all that she said. There was a hole in the stem into which she was wont to pour her complaints; and when she had thus unburdened her heart to her silent confidant, she felt comforted, as one feels when a human friend has shared one's sorrows.

When the child became older, and her sorrows were heavier, and, perhaps, more real, her well-nurtured mind began to rise to a higher source for comfort. Habit and inclination led her indeed to the same tree; but when she kneeled upon its roots and leaned against its stem, she poured out her heart into the bosom of Him who is ever present, and who can be touched with a feeling of our infirmities.

Almost immediately after landing on the island, Alice sought the umbrageous shelter of her old friend and favorite, and on her knees thanked God for restoring her to her father and her home.

To the same place the missionary directed his steps; for he knew it well, and doubtless expected to find his daughter there.

"Alice, dear, I have good news to tell you," said the missionary, sitting down beside her.

"I know what it is!" cried Alice, eagerly.

"What do you think it is, my pet?"

"Gascoyne is to be forgiven! Am I right?"

Mr. Mason shook his head sadly. "No, that is not what I have to tell you. Poor fellow, I would that I had some good news to give you about him; but I fear there is no hope for him,—I mean as regards his being pardoned by man."

Alice sighed, and her face expressed the deepest tenderness and sympathy.

"Why do you take so great an interest in this man, dear?" said her father.

"Because Mary Stuart loves him, and I love Mary Stuart. And Corrie seems to like him, too, since he has come to know him better. Besides, has he not saved my life, and Captain Montague's, and Corrie's? Corrie tells me that he is very sorry for the wicked things he has done, and he thinks that if his life is spared he will become a good man. Has he been very wicked, papa?"

"Yes, very wicked. He has robbed many people of their goods, and has burnt and sunk their vessels."

Alice looked horrified.

"But," continued her father, "I am convinced of the truth of his statement,—that he has never shed human blood. Nevertheless, he has been very wicked, and the fact that he has such a powerful will, such commanding and agreeable manners, only makes his guilt the greater; for there is less excuse for his having devoted such powers and qualities to the service of Satan. I fear that his judges will not take into account his recent good deeds and his penitence. They will not pardon him."

"Father," said Alice, earnestly, "God pardons the chief of sinners; why will not man do so?"

The missionary was somewhat perplexed as to how he should reply to such a difficult question.

"My child," said he, "the law of God and the law of man must be obeyed, or the punishment must be inflicted on the disobedient: both laws are alike in this respect. In the case of God's law, Jesus Christ our Lord obeyed it, bore the punishment for us, and set our souls free. But in the case of man's law, who is to bear Gascoyne's punishment and set him free?"

As poor Alice could not answer this, she cast down her tearful eyes, sighed again and looked more miserable than ever.

"But come, my pet," resumed Mr. Mason, you must guess again. "It is really good news,—try."

"I can't," said Alice, looking up in her father's face with animation and shaking her head. "I never could guess anything rightly."

"What would you think the best thing that could happen?" said her father.

The child looked intently at the ground for a few seconds, and pursed her rosy little mouth, while the smallest possible frown—the result of intellectual exertion—knitted her fair brow.

"The best thing that could happen," said she, slowly, "would be that all the whole world should become good."

"Well done, Alice!" exclaimed her father, laughing; "you have certainly taken the widest possible view of the subject. But you have soared a little too high; yet you have not altogether missed the mark. What would you say if, the chiefs of the heathen village were to cast their idols into the fire, and ask me to come over and teach them how to become Christians?"

"Oh! have they really done this?" cried Alice, in eager surprise.

"Indeed they have. I have just seen and had! a talk with some of their chief men, and have promised to go over to their village to-morrow. I came up here just to tell you this, and to say that your friend the widow will take care of you while I am away."

"And shall we have no more wars,—no more of these terrible deeds of blood?" inquired the child, while a shudder passed through her frame at the recollection of what she had heard and seen during her short life on that island.

"I trust not, my lamb. I believe that God has heard our prayers, and that the Prince of peace will henceforth rule in this place. But I must go and prepare for this work. Come, will you go with me?"

"Leave me here for a little, papa; I wish to think it over all alone."

Kissing her forehead, the missionary left her. When he was out of sight the little girl sat down, and, nestling between two great roots of her favorite tree, laid her head against the stem and shut her eyes.

But poor Alice was not left long to her solitary meditations. There was a peculiarly attractive power about her which drew other creatures around her, wherever she might chance to be.

The first individual who broke in upon her was that animated piece of ragged door-mat, Toozle. This imbecile little dog was not possessed of much delicacy of feeling. Having been absent on a private excursion of his own into the mountain when the schooner arrived, he only became aware of the return of his lost, loved, and deeply-regretted mistress, when he came back from his trip. The first thing that told him of her presence was his own nose, the black point of which protruded with difficulty a quarter of an inch beyond the mass of matting which totally extinguished his eyes, and, indeed, every other portion of his head.

Coming down the hill immediately behind Sandy Cove at a breakneck scramble, Toozle happened to cross the path by which his mistress had ascended to her tree. The instant he did so, he came to a halt so sudden that one might have fancied he had been shot. In another moment he was rushing up the hill in wild excitement, giving an occasional yelp of mingled surprise and joy as he went along. The footsteps led him a little beyond the tree, and then turned down towards it, so that he had the benefit of the descent in making the final onset.

The moment he came in sight of Alice he began to bark and yelp in such an eager way that the sounds produced might be described as an intermittent scream. He charged at once with characteristic want of consideration, and, plunging headlong into Alice's bosom, sought to cover her face with kisses; that is, with licks, that being the well-known canine method of doing the thing!

"O Toozle! how glad, glad, glad, I am to see you! my own darling Toozle!" cried Alice, actually shedding tears.

Toozle screamed with delight. It was almost too much for him. Again and again he attempted to lick her face, a familiarity which Alice gently declined to permit; so he was obliged to content himself with her hand.

It has often struck us as surprising, that little dogs—usually so intelligent and apt to learn in other matters—should be so dull of apprehension in this. Toozle had the experience of a lifetime to convince him that Alice objected to have her face licked, and would on no account permit it, although she was extremely liberal in regard to her hands; but Toozle ignored the authority of experience. He was at this time a dog of mature years; but his determination to kiss Alice was as strong as it had been when, in the tender years of his infancy, he had entertained the mistaken belief that she was his own mother.

He watched every unguarded moment to thrust forward his black, not to say impertinent, little snout; and although often reproved, he still remained unconvinced, resolutely returned to the charge, and was not a bit ashamed of himself.

On the present occasion, Toozle behaved like a canine lunatic, and Alice was beginning to think of exercising a little tender violence in order to restrain his superabundant glee, when another individual appeared on the scene, and for a time, at least, relieved her.

The second comer was our dark friend, Kekupoopi. She by some mischance had got separated from her young mistress, and immediately went in search of her. She found her at once, of course; for, as water finds its level, so love finds its object, without much loss of time.

"O Toozle!—bee! hee!—am dat you?" exclaimed Poopy, who was as much delighted in her way to see the dog as Alice had been.

Toozle was, in his way, as much delighted to see Poopy as he had been to see Alice;—no, we are wrong, not quite so much as that, but still extremely glad to see her, and evinced his joy by extravagant sounds and actions. He also evinced his scorn for the opinion that some foolish persons hold, namely, that black people are not as good as white, by rushing into Poopy's arms and attempting to lick her black face as he had tried to do to Alice. As the dark-skinned girl had no objection (for tastes differ, you see), and received the caresses with a quiet "Hee! hee!" Toozle was extremely gratified.

Now, it happened that Jo Bumpus, oppressed with a feeling of concern for his former captain, and with a feeling of doubt as to the stirring events in which he was an actor being waking realities, had wandered up the mountain-side in order to indulge in profound philosophical reflections.

Happening to hear the noise caused by the joyful meeting which we have just described, he turned aside to see what all the "row" could be about, and thus came unexpectedly on Alice and her friends.

About the same time it chanced (for things sometimes do happen by chance in a very remarkable way, it chanced that Will Corrie, being also much depressed about Gascoyne), resolved to take into his confidence Dick Price, the boatswain, with whom during their short voyage together he had become intimate.

He found that worthy seated on a cask at the end of the rude pile of coral rocks that formed the quay of Sandy Cove, surrounded by some of his shipmates, all of whom, as well as himself, were smoking their pipes and discussing things in general.

Corrie went forward and pulled Dick by the sleeve.

"Hallo, boy! what do you want with me?" said the boatswain.

"I want to speak to you."

"Well, lad, fire away."

"Yes, but I want you to come with me," said the boy, with an anxious and rather mysterious look.

"Very good—heave ahead," said the boatswain, getting up, and following Corrie with a peculiarly nautical roll.

After he had been led through the settlement and a considerable way up the mountain in silence, the boatswain suddenly stopped and said: "Hallo! hold on; my timbers won't stand much more o' this sort o' thing. I was built for navigatin' the seas,—I was not for cruisin' on the land. We're far enough out of ear-shot, I s'pose in this here bit of a plantation. Come, what have ye got to say to me? You ain't a goin' to tell me the Freemason's word, are ye? For, if so, don't trouble yourself; I wouldn't listen to it on no account w'atever. It's too mysterious, that is, for me."

"Dick Price," said Corrie, looking up in the face of the seaman, with a serious expression that was not often seen on his round countenance, "you're a man."

The boatswain looked down at the youthful visage in some surprise.

"Well, I s'pose I am," said he, stroking his beard complacently.

"And you know what it is to be misunderstood, misjudged, don't you?"

"Well, now I come to think on it, I believe I have had that misfortune—'specially w'en I've ordered the powder-monkeys to make less noise; for them younkers never do seem to understand me. As for misjudgin', I've often an' over again heard 'em say I was the crossest feller they ever did meet with; but they never was more out in their reckoning."

Corrie did not smile; he did not betray the smallest symptom of power either to appreciate or to indulge in jocularity at that moment. But feeling that it was useless to appeal to the former experience of the boatswain, he changed his plan of attack.

"Dick Price," said he, "it's a hard case for an innocent man to be hanged."

"So it is, boy,—oncommon hard. I once know'd a poor feller as was hanged for murderin' his old grandmother. It was afterwards found out that he never done the deed; but he was the most incorrigible thief and poacher in the whole place; so it wasn't such a mistake, after all."

"Dick Price," said Corrie, gravely, at the same time laying his hand impressively on his companion's arm, "I'm a tremendous joker—awful fond o' fun and skylarkin'."

"'Pon my word, lad, if you hadn't said so yourself, I'd scarce have believed it. You don't look like it just now, by no manner o' means."

"But I am, though," continued Corrie; "and I tell you that in order to show you that I am very, very much in earnest at this moment, and that you must give your mind to what I've got to say."

The boatswain was impressed by the fervor of the boy. He looked at him in surprise for a few seconds, then nodded his head, and said, "Fire away!"

"You know that Gascoyne is in prison!" said Corrie.

"In course I does. That's one rascally pirate less on the seas, anyhow."

"He is not so bad as you think, Dick."

"Whew!" whistled the boatswain. "You're a friend of his, are ye?"

"No, not a friend; but neither am I an enemy. You know he saved my life, and the lives of two of my friends, and of your own captain, too."

"Well, there's no denying that; but he must have been the means of takin' away more lives than what he has saved."

"No, he hasn't," cried Corrie, eagerly. "That's it, that's just the point; he has saved more than ever he took away, and he's sorry for what he has done; yet they're going to hang him. Now, I say, that's sinful—it's not just. It shan't be done, if I can prevent it; and you must help me to get him out of this scrape,—you must, indeed, Dick Price."

The boatswain was quite taken aback. He opened his eyes wide with surprise, and putting his head to one side, gazed earnestly and long at the boy, as if he had been a rare old painting.

Before he could reply, the furious barking of a dog attracted Corrie's attention. He knew it to be the voice of Toozle. Being well acquainted with the locality of Alice's tree, he at once concluded that she was there; and knowing that she would certainly side with him, and that the side she took must necessarily be the winning side, he resolved to bring Dick Price within the fascination of her influence.

"Come, follow me," said he; "we'll talk it over with a friend of mine."

The seaman followed the boy obediently, and in a few minutes stood beside Alice.

Corrie had expected to find her there, but he had not counted on meeting with Poopy and Jo Bumpus.

"Hallo, Grampus! is that you?"

"Wot! Corrie, my boy, is it yourself? Give us your flipper, small though it be. I didn't think I'd niver see ye agin, lad."

"No more did I, Grampus; it was very nearly all up with us."

"Ah, my boy!" said Bumpus, becoming suddenly very grave, "you've no notion, how near it was all up with me. Why, you won't believe it, I was all but scragged."

"Dear me! what is scragged?" inquired Alice.

"You don't mean to say you don't know!" exclaimed Bumpus.

"No, indeed, I don't."

"Why, it means being hanged. I was so near hanged, just a day or two back, that I've had an 'orrible pain in my neck ever since at the bare thought of it! But who's your friend?" said Bumpus, turning to the boatswain.

"Oh! I forgot him,—he's the boatswain of the Talisman. Dick Price, this is my friend John Bumpus."

"Glad to know you, Dick Price."

"Same to you, and luck, John Bumpus."

The two sea-dogs joined their enormous palms, and shook hands cordially.

After these two had indulged in a little desultory conversation, Will Corrie, who, meanwhile, consulted with Alice in an undertone, brought them back to the point that was uppermost in his mind.

"Now," said he, "it comes to this,—we must not let Gascoyne be hanged."

"Why, Corrie!" cried Bumpus, in surprise, "that's the very thing I was a-thinkin' of w'en I comed up here and found Miss Alice under the tree."

"I'm glad to hear that, Jo; it's what has been on my own mind all the morning. But Dick Price, he is not convinced that he deserves to escape. Now you tell him all you know about Gascoyne, and I'll tell him all I know; and if he don't believe us, Alice and Poopy will tell him all they know; and if that won't do, you and I will take him up by the legs and pitch him into the sea!"

"That bein' how the case stands, fire away," said Dick Price, with a grin, sitting down on the grass and busily filling his pipe.

Dick was not so hard to be convinced as Corrie had feared. The glowing eulogiums of Bumpus, and the earnest pleadings of Alice, won him over very soon. He finally agreed to become one of the conspirators.

"But how is the thing to be done?" asked Corrie, in some perplexity.

"Ah! that's the p'int," observed Dick, looking profoundly wise.

"Nothing easier," said Bumpus, whose pipe was by this time keeping pace with that of his new friend. "The case is as clear as mud. Here's how it is. Gascoyne is in limbo; well, we are out of limbo. Good. Then, all we've got for to do is to break into limbo and shove Gascoyne out of limbo, and help him to escape. It's all square, you see, lads."

"Not so square as you seem to think," said Henry Stuart, who at that moment stepped from behind the stem of the tree, which had prevented the party from observing his approach.

"Why not?" said Bumpus, making room for the young man to sit beside Alice on the grass.

"Because," said Henry, "Gascoyne won't agree to escape."

"Not agree for to escape!"

"No. If the prison doors were opened at this moment, he would not walk out."

Bumpus became very grave, and shook his head. "Are ye sartin sure o' this?" said he.

"Quite sure," replied Henry, who now detailed part of his recent conversation with the pirate captain.

"Then it's all up with him!" said Bumpus; "and the pirate will meet his doom, as I once heard a feller say in a play—though I little thought to see it acted in reality."

"So he will," added Dick Price.

Corrie's countenance fell, and Alice grew pale, Even Poopy and Toozle looked a little depressed.

"No; it is not all up with him," cried Henry Stuart, energetically. "I have a plan in my head which I think will succeed, but I must have assistance. It won't do, however, to discuss this before our young friends. I must beg of Alice and Poopy to leave us. I do not mean to say I could not trust you, Alice, but the plan must be made known only to those who have to act in this matter. Rest assured, dear child, that I shall do my best to make it successful."

Alice sprang up at once. "My father told me to follow him some time ago," said she. "I have been too long of doing so already. I do hope you will succeed."

So saying, and with a cheerful "Good-by!" the little girl ran down the mountain-side, closely followed by Toozle and Poopy.

As soon as she was gone, Henry turned to his companions and unfolded to them his plan,—the details and carrying out of which, however, we must reserve for another chapter.



CHAPTER XXIX.

BUMPUS IS PERPLEXED—MYSTERIOUS COMMUNINGS, AND A CURIOUS LEAVE-TAKING.

"It's a puzzler," said Jo Bumpus to himself,—for Jo was much in the habit of conversing with himself; and a very good habit it is, one that is often attended with much profit to the individual, when the conversation is held upon right topics and in a proper spirit,—"it's a puzzler, it is; that's a fact."

Having relieved his mind of this observation, the seaman proceeded to cut down some tobacco, and looked remarkably grave and solemn as if "it" were not only a puzzler, but an alarmingly serious puzzler.

"Yes, it's the biggest puzzler as ever I comed across," said he, filling his pipe; for John, when not roused, got on both mentally and physically by slow stages.

"Niver know'd its equal," he continued, beginning to smoke, which operation, as the pipe did not "draw" well at first, prevented him from saying anything more.

It was early morning when Bumpus said all this, and the mariner was enjoying his morning pipe in a reclining attitude on the grass beneath Alice Mason's favorite tree, from which commanding position he gazed approvingly on the magnificent prospect of land and sea which lay before him, bathed in the light of the rising sun.

"It is wery koorious," continued John, taking his pipe out of his mouth and addressing himself to it with much gravity—"wery koorious. Things always seems wot they isn't, and turns out to be wot they didn't appear as if they wasn't; werry odd indeed, it is! Only to think that this here sandal-wood trader should turn out for to be Henry's father and the widow's mother,—or, I mean, the widow's husband,—an' a pirate an' a deliverer o' little boys and girls out o' pirate's hands,—his own hands, so to speak,—not to mention captings in the Royal Navy, an' not sich a bad feller after all, as won't have his liberty on no account wotiver, even if it was gived to him for nothin', and yet wot can't get it if he wanted it iver so much; and to think that Jo Bumpus should come for to lend hisself to—Hallo! Jo, back yer tops'ls! Didn't Henry tell ye that ye wasn't to convarse upon that there last matter even with yerself, for fear o' bein' overheard and sp'ilin' the whole affair? Come, I'll refresh myself."

The refreshment in which Jo proposed to indulge was of a peculiar kind which never failed him,—it was the perusal of Susan's love-letter.

He now sat up, drew forth the precious and much-soiled epistle, unfolded and spread it out carefully on his knees, placed his pipe very much on one side of his mouth, in order that the smoke might not interfere with his vision, and began to read.

"'Peeler's Farm,'—ah! Susan, darlin', it's Jo Bumpus as would give all he has in the world, includin' his Sunday clo's, to be anchored alongside o' ye at that same farm!—'Sanfransko.' I misdoubt the spellin' o' that word, Susan, dear; it seems to me raither short, as if ye'd docked off its tail. Howsomdever—'For John bumpuss'—O Susan, Susan! if ye'd only remember the big B, and there ain't two esses. I'm sure it's not for want o'tellin' ye, but ye was never great in the way ov memry or spellin'. Pr'aps it's as well. Ye'd ha' bin too perfect, an' that's not desirable by no means,—'my darlin' Jo,'—ay, them's the words. It's that as sets my 'art a b'ilin' over like."

Here Jo raised his eyes from the letter, and revelled silently in the thought for at least two minutes, during which his pipe did double duty in half its usual time. Then he recurred to his theme; but some parts he read in silence, and without audible comment.

"Aye," said he, "'sandle-wood skooners, the Haf ov thems pirits'—so they is, Susan. It's yer powers o' prophesy as amazes me; 'an' The other hafs no beter;' a deal wus, Susan, if ye only know'd it. Ah! my sweet gal, if ye knew wot a grief that word 'beter' was to me before I diskivered wot it wos, ye'd try to improve yer hand o' write, an' make fewer blots!"

At this point Jo was arrested by the sound of footsteps behind him. He folded up his letter precipitately, thrust it into his left breast-pocket, and jumped up with a guilty air about him.

"Why, Bumpus! we have startled you out of a morning nap, I fear," said Henry Stuart, who, accompanied by his mother, came up at that moment. "We are on our way to say good-by to Mr. Mason. As we passed this knoll I caught sight of you, and came up to ask about the boat."

"It's all right," said Bumpus, who quickly recovered his composure,—indeed, he had never lost much of it. "I've bin down to Saunder's store and got the ropes for your—"

"Hush, man! there is no need of telling what they are for," said Henry, with a mysterious look at his mother.

"Why not tell me all, Henry?" said Mrs. Stuart; "surely, you can trust me?"

"Trust you, mother!" replied the youth, with a smile. "I should think so; but there are reasons for my not telling you everything just now. Surely, you can trust me? I have told you as much as I think advisable in the meantime. Ere long I will tell you all."

The widow sighed, and was fain to rest content. She sat down beside the tree, while her companions talked together, apart, in low tones.

"Now Jo, my man," continued Henry, "one of our friends must be got out of the way."

"Wery good; I'm the man as'll do it."

"Of course I don't mean that he's to be killed!"

"In coorse not. Who is he?"

"Ole Thorwald."

"Wot! the descendant o' the Sea Kings, as he calls himself?"

"The same," said Henry, laughing at the look of surprise with which Bumpus received this information.

"What has he bin an' done?"

"He has done nothing as yet," said Henry; "but he will certainly thwart our schemes if he hears of them. He has an inveterate ill-will to my poor father (Henry lowered his voice as he proceeded), and I know has suspicions that we are concocting some plan to enable him to escape, and watches us accordingly. I find him constantly hanging about the jail. Alas! if he knew how thoroughly determined Gascoyne is to refuse deliverance unless it comes from the proper source, he would keep his mind more at ease."

"Don't you think if you wos to tell him that Gascoyne is yer father he would side with us?" suggested Bumpus.

"Perhaps he would. I think he would; but I dare not risk it. The easier method will be to outwit him."

"Not an easy thing for to do, I'm afraid; for he's a cute old feller. How is it to be done?" asked Bumpus.

"By telling him the truth," said Henry; "and you must tell it to him."

"Well, that is a koorious way," said Bumpus, with a broad grin.

"But not the whole truth," continued Henry. "You must just tell him as much as it is good for him to know, and nothing more; and as the thing must be done at once, I'll tell you what you have got to say."

Here the young man explained to the attentive Bumpus the course that he was to follow, and, having got him thoroughly to understand his part, he sent him away to execute it. Meanwhile he and his mother went in search of Mr. Mason, who at the time was holding a consultation with the chiefs of the native village, near the site of his burnt cottage. The consultation had just been concluded when they reached the spot, and the missionary was conversing with the native carpenter who superintended the erection of his new home.

After the morning greeting, and a few words of general conversation, Mrs. Stuart said: "We have come to talk with you in private; will you walk to Alice's tree with us?"

"Certainly, my friend; I hope no new evils are about to befall us," said the missionary, who was startled by the serious countenances of the mother and son; for he was ignorant of the close relation in which they stood to Gascoyne, as, indeed, was every one else in the settlement, excepting Montague and his boatswain and Corrie, all of whom were enjoined to maintain the strictest secrecy on the point.

"No; I thank God, all is well," replied Mrs. Stuart; "but we have come to say that we are going away."

"Going away!" echoed the missionary, in surprise. "When?—where to?—why? You amaze me, Mary."

"Henry will explain."

"The fact is, Mr. Mason?" said Henry, "circumstances require my absence from Sandy Cove on a longer trip than usual, and I mean to take my mother with me. Indeed, to be plain with you, I do not think it likely that we shall return for a long time, perhaps not at all; and it is absolutely necessary that we should go secretly. But we could not go without saying good-by to you."

"We owe much to you, dear Mr. Mason," cried the widow, grasping the missionary's hand and kissing it. "We can never, never forget you; and will always pray for God's best blessings to descend on you and yours."

"This is overwhelming news!" exclaimed Mr. Mason, who had stood hitherto gazing from the one to the other in mute astonishment. "But, tell me, Mary" (here he spoke in earnest tones), "is not Gascoyne at the bottom of this?"

"Mr. Mason," said Henry, "we never did, and never will deceive you. There is a good reason for neither asking nor answering questions on this subject just now. I am sure you know us too well to believe that we think of doing what is wrong, and you can trust us—at least my mother—that we will not do what is foolish."

"I have perfect confidence in your hearts, my dear friends," replied Mr. Mason; "but you will forgive me if I express some doubt as to your ability to judge between right and wrong when your feelings are deeply moved, as they evidently are, from some cause or other, just now. Can you not put confidence in me? I can keep a secret, and may, perhaps, give you good counsel."

"No, no," said Henry, emphatically; "it will not do to involve you in our affairs. It would not be right in us just now to confide even in you. I cannot explain why—you must accept the simple assurance in the meantime. Wherever we go, we can communicate by letter, and I promise, ere long, to reveal all."

"Well, I will not press you further; but I will commend you in prayer to God. I do not like to part thus hurriedly, however. Can we not meet again before you go?"

"We shall be in the cottage at four this afternoon, and will be very glad if you will come to us for a short time," said the widow.

"That is settled, then; I will go and explain to the natives that I cannot accompany them to the village till to-morrow. When do you leave?"

"To-night."

"So soon! Surely it is not—But I forbear to say more on a subject which is forbidden. God bless you, my friends; we shall meet at four. Good-by!"

The missionary turned from them with a sad countenance, and went in search of the native chiefs; while Henry and his mother separated from each other, the former taking the path that led to the little quay of Sandy Cove, the latter that which conducted to her own cottage.



CHAPTER XXX.

MORE LEAVING—DEEP DESIGNS—BUMPUS IN A NEW CAPACITY.

On the particular day of which we are writing, Alice Mason felt an unusual depression of spirits. She had been told by her father of the intended departure of the widow and her son, and had been warned not to mention it to any one. In consequence of this, the poor child was debarred her usual consolation of pouring her grief into the black bosom of Poopy. It naturally followed, therefore, that she sought her next favorite,—the tree.

Here, to her surprise and comfort, she found Corrie, seated on one of its roots, with his head resting on the stem, and his hands clasped before him. His general appearance was that of a human being in the depths of woe. On observing Alice, he started up, and assuming a cheerful look, ran to meet her.

"Oh! I'm so glad to find you here, Corrie," cried Alice, hastening forward; "I'm in such distress! Do you know that—Oh! I forgot papa said I was to tell nobody about it!"

"Don't let that trouble you, Alice," said Corrie, as they sat down together under the tree. "I know what you were about to say,—Henry and his mother are going away."

"How do you know that? I thought it was a great secret!"

"So it is, a tremendous secret," rejoined Corrie, with a look that was intended to be very mysterious; "and I know it, because I've been let into the secret for reasons which I cannot tell even to you. But there is another secret which you don't know yet, and which will surprise you perhaps, I am going away, too."

"You!" exclaimed the little girl, her eyes dilating to their full size.

"Aye—me!"

"You're jesting, Corrie."

"Am I? I wish I was; but it's a fact."

"But where are you going to?" said Alice, her eyes filling with tears.

"I don't know."

"Corrie!"

"I tell you, I don't know; and if I did know, I couldn't tell. Listen, Alice; I will tell you as much as I am permitted to let out."

The boy became extremely solemn at this point, took the little girl's hand, and gazed into her face as he spoke.

"You must know," he began, "that Henry and his mother and I go away to-night—"

"To-night?" cried Alice, quickly.

"To-night," repeated the boy. "Bumpus and Jakolu go with us. I have said that I don't know where we are going to, but I am pretty safe in assuring you that we are going somewhere. Why we are going I am forbidden to tell,—divulge, I think Henry called it; but what that means I don't know. I can only guess it's another word for tell; and yet it can't be that either, for you can speak of telling lies, but you can't speak of divulging them. However, that don't matter. But I'm not forbidden to tell you why I'm going away. In the first place, then, I'm going to seek my fortune! Where I'm to find it remains to be seen. The only thing I know is, that I mean to find it somewhere or other, and then" (here Corrie because very impressive) "come back and live beside you and your father,—not to speak of Poopy and Toozle."

Alice smiled sadly at this. Corrie looked graver than ever, and went on:

"Meanwhile, during my absence I will write letters to you, and you'll write ditto to me. I am going away because I ought to go and be doing something for myself. You know quite well that I would rather stop beside you than go anywhere in this wide world, Alice; but that would be stupid. I'm getting to be a man now, and mustn't go on showin' the weaknesses of a boy. In the second, or third place,—I forget which, but no matter,—I am going with Henry, because I could not go with a better man; and in the fourth—if it's not the fifth—place, I'm going because Uncle Ole Thorwald has long wished me to go to sea; and, to tell you the truth, I would have gone long ago had it not been for you, Alice. There's only one thing that bothers me." Here Corrie looked at his fair companion with a perplexed air.

"What is that?" asked Alice, sympathetically.

"It is that I must go without saying good-by to Uncle Ole. I am very sorry about it. It will look so ungrateful to him; but it can't be helped."

"Why not?" inquired Alice. "If he has often said he wished you to go sea, would he not be delighted to hear that you are going?"

"Yes; but he must not know that I am going to-night, and with Henry Stuart."

"Why not?"

"Ah! that's the point. Mystery! Alice—mystery! What a world of mystery this is!" observed the precocious Corrie, shaking his head with profound solemnity. "I've been involved (I think that's the word), rolled up, drowned, and buried in mystery for more than three weeks, and I'm beginning to fear that I'll never again git into the unmysteriously happy state in which I lived before this abominable man-of-war came to the island. No, Alice: I dare not say anything more on that point, even to you just now. But won't I give it you all in my first letter? and won't you open your eyes until they look like two blue saucers?"

Further conversation between the friends was interrupted at this point by the inrushing of Toozle, followed up by Poopy, and a short time after, by Mr. Mason, who took Alice away with him, and left poor Corrie disconsolate.

While this was going on, John Bumpus was fulfilling his mission to Ole Thorwald.

He found that obstinate individual in his own parlor, deep in the investigation of the state of his books of business, which had been allowed to fall into arrears during his absence.

"Come in, Bumpus. So I hear you were half-hanged when we were away."

Ole wheeled round on his stool, and hooked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest, as he said this, leaned his back against his desk, and regarded the seaman with a facetious look.

"Half-hanged, indeed!" said Bumpus, indignantly. "I was more than half—three-quarters, at least. Why, the worst of it's over w'en the rope's round your neck."

"That is a matter which you can't speak to, John Bumpus, seeing that you've never gone beyond the putting of the rope round your neck."

"Well, I'm content with wot I does happen to know about it," remarked Jo, making a wry face; "an' I hope that I'll never git the chance of knowin' more. But I comed here on business, Mr. Thorwald" (here John became mysterious, and put his finger to his lips.) "I've comed here, Mr. Thorwald, to—split."

As Ole did not quite understand the meaning of this word, and did not believe that the seaman actually meant to rend himself from head to foot, he said, "Why, Bumpus! what d'ye mean?"

"I mean as how that I've comed to split on my comrades; w'ich means, I'm goin' to tell upon 'em."

"Oh!" exclaimed Ole, eying the man with a look of distrust.

"Yes," pursued Bumpus; "I'm willin' to tell ye all about it, and prevent his escape, if you'll only promise, on your word as a gin'lmun, that ye won't tell nobody else but six niggers, who are more than enough to sarve your turn."

"Prevent whose escape?" said Thorwald, with an excited look.

"Gascoyne's."

Ole jumped off his stool, and hit his left palm a sounding blow with his right fist.

"I knew it!" he exclaimed, staring into the face of the seaman. "I was sure of it! I said it! But how d'ye know, my man?"

"Ah! I'll not say another word if ye don't promise to let me go free, and only take six niggers with ye."

"Well, Bumpus, I do promise, on the word of a true Norseman, which is much better than that of a gentleman, that no harm shall come to you if you tell me all you know of this matter. But I will promise nothing more; because if you won't tell me, you have told me enough to enable me to take such measures as will prevent Gascoyne from escaping."

"No, ye can't prevent it," said Bumpus, with an air of indifference. "If you don't choose to come to my way o' thinkin', ye can take yer own coorse. But, let me tell you, there's more people on the island that will take Gascoyne's part than ye think of. There's the whole crew of the Talisman, whose cap'n he saved, and a lot besides; an' if ye do come to a fight about it, ye'll have a pretty tough scrimmage. There'll be blood spilt, Mr. Thorwald, an' it was partly to prevent that as I comed here for. But you know best. You better take yer own way, an' I'll take mine."

The cool impudence of manner with which John Bumpus said this had its effect on Ole, who, although fond enough of fighting against enemies, had no sort of desire to fight against friends, especially for the sake of a pirate.

"Come, Bumpus," said he, "you and I understand each other. Let us talk the thing over calmly. I've quite as much objection to see unnecessary bloodshed as you have. We have had enough of that lately. Tell me what you know, and I promise to do what you recommend as far as I can in reason."

"Do you promise to let no one else know wot I tell ye?"

"I do."

"An' d'ye promise to take no more than six niggers to prewent this escape?"

"Will six be enough?"

"Plenty; but, if that bothers ye, say twelve,—I'm not partic'lar,—say twelve. That's more than enough; for they'll only have four to fight with."

"Well, I promise that too."

"Good. Now I'll tell ye all about it," said Bumpus. "You see, although I'm splittin', I don't want to get my friends into trouble, and so I got you to promise; an' I trust to yer word, Mr. Thorwald—you being a gen'lmun. This is how it is: Young Henry Stuart thinks that although Gascoyne is a pirate, or rather was a pirate, he don't deserve to be hanged. Cause why? Firstly, he never committed no murder; secondly, he saved the lives o' some of your people—Alice Mason among the rest; and, thirdly, he is an old friend o' the family as has done 'em good sarvice long ago. So Henry's made up his mind that, as Gascoyne's sure to be hanged if he's tried, it's his duty to prewent that there from happenin' of. Now, ye see, Gascoyne is quite willin' to escape—"

"Ha! the villain!" exclaimed Ole; "I was sure of that. I knew well enough that all his smooth-tongued humility was hypocrisy. I'm sorry for Henry, and don't wish to thwart him; but it's clearly my duty to prevent this escape if I can."

"So I think, sir," said Bumpus; "so I think. That's just w'at I said to meself w'en I made up my mind for to split. Gascoyne bein' willin', then, Henry has bribed the jailer, and he intends to open the jail door for him at twelve o'clock this night, and he'll know w'at to do with his legs w'en he's got 'em free."

"But how am I to prevent his escape if I do not set a strong guard over the prison?" exclaimed Ole, in an excited manner. "If he once gets into the mountains, I might as well try to catch a hare."

"All fair and softly, Mr. Thorwald. Don't take on so. It ain't two o'clock yet; we've lots o' time. Henry has arranged to get a boat ready for him. At twelve o'clock to-night the doors will be opened, and he'll start for the boat. It will lie concealed among the rocks off the Long Point. There's no mistakin' the spot, just west of the village; an' if you place your niggers there, you'll have as good chance as need be to nab 'em. Indeed, there's two boats to be in waitin' for the pirate captain and his friends—set 'em up!"

"And where is the second boat to be hidden?" asked Ole.

"I'm not sure of the exact spot; but it can't be very far off from the tother, cer'nly not a hundred miles," said Bumpus, with a grin. "Now, wot I want is, that if ye get hold of the pirate ye'll be content, an' not go an' peach on Henry an' his comrades. They'll be so ashamed o' themselves at bein' nabbed in the wery act that they'll give it up as a bad job. Besides, ye can then go an' give him in charge of Capting Montague. But if ye try to prewent the escape bein' attempted, Henry will take the bloody way of it; for I tell you, his birse is up, an' no mistake."

"How many men are to be with Gascoyne?" asked Thorwald, who, had he not been naturally a stupid man, must have easily seen through this clumsy attempt to blind him.

"Just four," answered Bumpus; "an' I'm to be one of 'em."

"Well, Bumpus, I'll take your advice. I shall be at the Long Point before twelve, with a dozen niggers, and I'll count on you lending us a hand."

"No, ye mustn't count on that, Mr. Thorwald. Surely, it's enough if I run away and leave the others to fight."

"Very well; do as you please," said Thorwald, with a look of contempt.

"Good day, Mr. Thorwald. You'll be sure to be there?"

"Trust me."

"An' you'll not a word about it to nobody?"

"Not a syllable."

"That's all square. You'll see the boat w'en ye git there, and as long as ye see that boat yer all right. Good day, sir."

John Bumpus left Thorwald's house chuckling, and wended his way to the widow's cottage, whistling the "Groves of Blarney."



CHAPTER XXXI.

THE AMBUSH—THE ESCAPE—RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE—AND CONCLUSION.

An hour before the appointed time, Ole Thorwald, under cover of a dark night, stole out of his own dwelling, with slow and wary step, and crossed the little plot of ground that lay in front of it, with the sly and mysterious air of a burglar rather than that of an honest man.

Outside his gate he was met in the same cautious manner by a dark-skinned human being, the character of whose garments was something between those of a sailor and a West India planter. This was Sambo, Thorwald's major-domo, clerk, overseer, and right-hand man. Sambo was not his proper name; but his master, regarding him as being the embodiment of all the excellent qualities that could by any possibility exist in the person of a South Sea islander, had bestowed upon him the generic name of the dark race, in addition to that wherewith Mr. Mason had gifted him on the day of his baptism.

Sambo and his master exchanged a few words in low whispers, and then gliding down the path that led from the stout merchant's house to the south side of the village, they entered the woods that lined the shore, like two men bent on a purpose which might or might not be of the blackest possible kind.

"I don't half like this sort of work, Sambo," observed Thorwald, speaking and treading with less caution as they left the settlement behind them. "Ambushments, surprises, and night forages, especially when they include Goat's Passes, don't suit me at all. I have a strong antipathy to everything in the way of warfare, save a fair field and no favor, under the satisfactory light of the sun."

"Ho!" said Sambo, quietly; as much as to say, "I hear and appreciate, but having no observation to make in reply, I wait for more from your honored lips."

"Now, you see," pursued Thorwald, "if I were to follow my own tastes, which, it seems to me, I am destined not to be allowed to do any more in the affairs of this world, if I may judge by the events of the past month,—if I were to follow my own tastes, I say, I would go boldly to the prison where this pestiferous pirate captain lies, put double irons on him, and place a strong guard round the building. In this case I would be ready to defend it against any odds, and would have the satisfaction of standing up for the rights of the settlement like a man, and of hurling defiance at the entire British navy, at least such portions of it as happens to be on the island at this time, if they were to attempt a rescue—as this Bumpus hints they are likely to do. Yet it seems to me strange and unaccountable that they should thus interest themselves in a vile pirate. I verily believe that I have been deceived; but it is too late now to alter my plans, or to hesitate. Truly, it seemeth to me that I might style myself an ass, without impropriety."

"Ho!" remarked Sambo; and the grin with which the remark was accompanied seemed to imply that he not only appreciated his master's sentiment, but agreed with it entirely.

"You've got eleven men, I trust. Sambo?"

"Yes, mass'r."

"All good and true, I hope—men who can be trusted both in regard to their fighting qualities and their ability to hold their tongues."

"Dumb as owls, ebery von," returned Sambo.

"Good! You see, my man, I must not permit that fellow to escape; at the same time I do not wish to blazon abroad, that it is my friend Henry Stuart who is helping him. Neither do I wish to run the risk of killing my friends in a scrimmage, if they are so foolish as to resist me; therefore I am particular about the men you have told off for this duty. Where did you say they are to meet us?"

"Close by de point, mass'r."

A few minutes' walk brought them to the point, where the men were awaiting them. As far as Ole could judge, by the dim light of a few stars that struggled through the cloudy sky, they were eleven as stout fellows as any warrior could desire to have at his back in a hand-to-hand conflict. They were all natives, clothed much in the same manner as Sambo, and armed with heavy clubs; for, as we have seen, Thorwald was resolved that this should be a bloodless victory.

"Whereabouts is the boat?" whispered Ole to his henchman, as he groped his way down the rocky slopes toward the shore.

"'Bout two hondr'd yards more farder in front," said Sambo.

"Then I'll place the men here," said Ole, turning to the natives, who were following close at his heels. "Now, boys, remain under cover of this rock till I lead you on to the attack; and, mind what I say to you,—no killing! Some of the party are my friends; d'ye understand? I don't want to do them a damage; but I do want to prevent their letting off as great a villain, I believe, as ever sailed the ocean under a black flag—only his was a red one, because of his extreme bloody-mindedness, no doubt, which led him to adopt the color of blood. We will attack them in the rear; which means, of course, by surprise; though I must confess that style of warfare goes much against the grain with me. There are just four men, I am told, besides the pirate. Our first onset will secure the fall of at least two of the party by my own cudgel; and, mark me, lads, I don't say this in a spirit of boasting. He would indeed be but a poor warrior who could not fell two men when he took them unawares and in the dark. No; I feel half ashamed o' the work; but I suppose it is my duty. So you see there will be just two men and the pirate left for us to deal with. Four of you ought to be able to overcome the two men without drawing blood, except, it may be, a little surface fluid. The remaining nine of us will fall on the pirate captain in a body. You will easily know him by his great size; and I have no manner of doubt but that he will make himself further known by the weight of his blows. If I happen to fall, don't look after me till you have overcome and bound the pirate. The ropes are all ready, and my man Sambo will carry them."

Having delivered this address to his followers, who by their "Ho's" and grins indicated their perfect readiness to do as they were bid, Ole Thorwald left them in ambush, and groped his way down to the beach, accompanied by Sambo.

"Did you bring the chain and padlock. Sambo?"

"Yis, mass'r. But you no tink it am berer to take boat away—pull him out ob sight?"

"No, Sambo; I have thought on that subject already, and have come to the conclusion that it is better to let the boat remain. You see they have placed it in such a way that as long as daylight lasted it could be seen from the settlement, and even now it is visible at some distance, as you see. If we were to remove it, they would at once observe that it was gone, and thus be put on their guard. No, no, Sambo. I may not be fond of ambushments, but I flatter myself that I have some talent for such matters."

The master and servant had reached the beach by this time, where they found the boat in the exact position that had been indicated by John Bumpus. It lay behind a low piece of coral rock, fastened to an iron ring by means of a rope, while the oars lay in readiness on the thwarts.

Sambo now produced a heavy iron chain, with which the boat was speedily fastened to the ring. It was secured with a large padlock, the key of which Ole placed in his pocket.

This being satisfactorily accomplished, they returned to the place of ambush.

"Now, Mister Gascoyne," observed Thorwald, with a grim smile, as he sat down beside his men and pulled out his watch, "I will await your pleasure. It is just half-past eleven; if you are a punctual man, as Jo Bumpus led me to believe, I will try your metal in half an hour, and have you back in your cage before one o'clock! What say you to that, Sambo?"

The faithful native opened his huge mouth wide, and shut his eyes, thereby indicating that he laughed; but he said nothing, bad, good, or indifferent, to his master's facetious observation. The other natives also grinned, in a quiet but particularly knowing manner, after which the whole party relapsed into profound silence, and kept their midnight watch with exemplary patience and eager expectation.

At this same hour the pirate captain was seated in his cell on the edge of the low bedstead, with his elbows resting on his knees and his face buried in his hands.

The cell was profoundly dark,—so dark that the figure of the prisoner could scarcely be distinguished.

Gascoyne did not move for many minutes; but once or twice a deep sigh escaped him, showing that, although his body was at rest, his thoughts were busy. At last he moved, and clasped his hands together violently, as if under a strong impulse. In doing so, the clank of his chains echoed harshly through the cell. This seemed to change the current of his thoughts; for he again covered his face with both hands, and began to mutter to himself.

"Aye," said he, "it has come at last. How often I have dreamed of this when I was free and roaming over the wide ocean! I would say that I have been a fool did I not feel that I have more cause to bow my head and confess that I am a sinner. Ah, what a thing pride is! How little do men know what it has cost me to humble myself before them as I have done! yet I feel no shame in confessing it here, where I am all alone. Alone?—am I alone?"

For a long time Gascoyne sat in deep silence, as if he were following out the train of thought which had been suggested by the last words. Presently his ideas again found vent in muttered speech.

"In my pride I have said that there is no God. I don't think I ever believed that; but I tried to believe it, for I knew that my deeds were evil. Surely my own words will condemn me; for I have said that I think myself a fool, and does not the Bible say that 'the fool hath said in his heart there is no God?' Aye, I remember it well. The words were printed in my brain when I learned the Psalms of David at my mother's knee, long, long ago. My mother! what bitter years have passed since that day! How little did ye dream, mother, that your child would come to this! God help me!"

The pirate relapsed into silence, and a low groan escaped him. But his thoughts seemed too powerful to be restrained within his breast; for they soon broke forth again in words.

"Your two texts have come true, Pastor Mason. You did not mean them for me; but they were sent to me. 'There is no rest, saith my God, to the wicked.'—No rest! I have not known rest since I was a boy.—'Be sure your sin shall find you out.' I laughed at those words once; they laugh at me now. I have found them out to be true, and found it out too late. Too late! Is it too late? If these words be true, are not all the words of God equally true? 'The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin.' That was what you said, Pastor Mason, on that Sunday morning when the savages were stealing down on us. It gave me comfort then; but, ah me! it seems to give me no comfort now. Oh that I had resisted the tempter when he first came to me! Strange! I often heard this said long, long ago; but I laughed at it,—not in scorn; no, it was an easy indifference. I did not believe it had anything to do with me. And now, I suppose, if I were to stand in the public streets and cry that I had been mistaken, with all the fervor of a bursting heart, men would laugh at me in an easy way—as I did then.

"I don't fear death. I have often faced it, and I don't remember ever feeling afraid of death. Yet I shrink from death now. Why is this? What a mystery my thoughts and feelings are to me! I know not what to think. But it will soon be over; for I feel certain that I shall be doomed to die. God help me!"

Gascoyne again became silent. When he had remained thus a few minutes, his attention was roused by the sound of footsteps and of whispering voices close under his window. Presently the key was put in the lock, the heavy bolt shot back, and the door creaked on its hinges as it opened slowly.

Gascoyne knew by the sound that several men entered the cell, but, as they carried no light, he could not tell how many there were. He was of course surprised at a visit at such an unusual hour, as well as at the stealthy manner in which his visitors entered; but, having made up his mind to submit quietly to whatever was in store for him, and knowing that he could not hope for much tenderness at the hands of the inhabitants of Sandy Cove, he was not greatly disturbed. Still, he would not have been human had not his pulse quickened under the influence of a strong desire to spring up and defend himself.

The door of the cell was shut and locked as quietly as it had been opened; then followed the sound of footsteps crossing the floor.

"Is that you, jailer?" demanded Gascoyne.

"Ye'll know that time enough," answered a gruff voice, that was not unfamiliar to the prisoner's ear.

The others who had entered along with this man did not move from the door,—at least, if they did so, there was no sound of footsteps. The man who had spoken went to the window and spread a thick cloth over it. Gascoyne could see this, because there was sufficient light outside to make the arms of the man dimly visible as he raised them up to accomplish his object. The cell was thus rendered, if possible, more impenetrably dark than before.

"Now, pirate," said the man, turning round and suddenly flashing a dark lantern full on the stern face of the prisoner, "you and I will have a little convarse together—by yer leave or without yer leave. In case there might be pryin' eyes about, I've closed the porthole, d'ye see."

Gascoyne listened to this familiar style of address in surprise, but did not suffer his features to betray any emotion whatever. The lantern which the seaman (for such he evidently was) carried in his hand threw a strong light wherever its front was turned, but left every other part of the cell in partial darkness. The reflected light was, however, quite sufficient to enable the prisoner to see that his visitor was a short, thick-set man, of great physical strength, and that three men of unusual size and strength stood against the wall, in the deep shadow of a recess, with their straw hats pulled very much over their eyes.

"Now, Mr. Gascoyne," began the seaman, sitting down on the edge of a small table beside the low pallet, and raising the lantern a little, while he gazed earnestly into the prisoner's face, "I've reason to believe—"

"Ha! you are the boatswain of the Talisman!" exclaimed Gascoyne, as the light reflected from his own countenance irradiated that of Dick Price, whom, of course, he had seen while they were on board the frigate together.

"No, Mister Pirate," said Dick; "I am not the bo's'n of the Talisman, else I shouldn't be here this night. I wos the bo's'n of that unfortunate frigate, but I is so no longer."

Dick said this in a melancholy tone, and thereafter meditated for a few moments in silence.

"No," he resumed with a heavy sigh, "the Talisman's blow'd up, an' her bo's'n's out on the spree, so to speak—though it ain't a cheerful spree, by no means. But to come back to the p'int (w'ich was wot the clergyman said w'en he'd got so far away from the p'int that he never did get back to it), as I wos sayin', or was goin' to say w'en you prewented me, I've reason to b'lieve you're agoin' to try for to make yer escape."

"You are mistaken, my man," said Gascoyne, with a sad smile; "nothing is further from my thoughts."

"I don't know how far it's from yer thoughts," said Dick, sternly, "but it's pretty close to your intentions, so I'm told."

"Indeed you are mistaken," replied Gascoyne. "If Captain Montague has sent you here to mount guard, he has only deprived you of a night's rest needlessly. If I had intended to make my escape, I would not have given myself up."

"I don't know that,—I'm not so sure o' that," rejoined the boatswain, stoutly. "You're said to be a obstinate feller, and there's no sayin' what obstinate fellers won't do or will do. But I didn't come here for to argify the question with you, Mister Gascoyne. Wot I com'd here for wos to do my duty; so, now, I'm agoin' to do it."

Gascoyne, who was amused in spite of himself by the manner of the man, merely smiled, and awaited in silence the pleasure of his eccentric visitor.

Dick now set down the lantern, went to the door, and returned with a coil of stout rope.

"You see," observed the boatswain, as he busied himself in uncoiling-and making a running noose on the rope, "I'm ordered to prewent you from carrying out your intentions—wotiver these may be—by puttin' a coil or two o' this here rope round you. Now, wot I've got to ask of you is, Will ye submit peaceable like to have it done?"

"Surely, this is heaping unnecessary indignity upon me!" exclaimed Gascoyne, flushing crimson with anger.

"It may be unnecessary, but it's got to be done," returned Dick, with cool decision, as he placed the end of a knot between his powerful teeth, and drew it tight. "Besides, Mister Gascoyne, a pirate must expect indignities to be heaped upon him. However, I'll heap as few as possible on ye in the discharge of my duty."

Gascoyne had started to his feet; but he sat down, abashed on being thus reminded of his deserts.

"True," said he; "true. I will submit."

He added in his mind, "I deserve this;" but nothing more escaped his lips, while he stood up and permitted the boatswain to pass the cord round his arms, and lash them firmly to his sides.

Having bound him in a peculiarly tight and nautical manner, Dick once more went to his accomplices at the door, and returned with a hammer and chisel, and a large stone. The latter he placed on the table, and, directing Gascoyne to raise his arms—which were not secured below the elbows—and placed his manacles on the stone, he cut them asunder with a few powerful blows, and removed them.

"The darbies ain't o' no use, you see, as we've got you all safe with the ropes. Now, Mister Gascoyne, I'm agoin' to heap one more indignity on ye. I'm sorry to do it, d'ye see; but I'm bound for to obey orders. You'll be so good as to sit down on the bed,—for I ain't quite so long as you, though I won't say that I'm not about as broad,—and let me tie this napkin over yer mouth."

"Why!" exclaimed Gascoyne, again starting and looking fiercely at the boatswain; "this, at least, must be unnecessary. I have said that I am willing to submit quietly to whatever the law condemns me. You don't take me for a woman or a child, that will be apt to cry out when hurt?"

"Certainly not; but as I'm goin' to take ye away out o' this here limbo, it is needful that I should prewent you from lettin' people know that yer goin' on yer travels; for I've heerd say there's some o' yer friends as is plottin' to help you to escape."

"Have I not said already that I do not wish to escape, and therefore will not take advantage of any opportunity afforded me by my friends? Friends! I have no friends! Even those whom I thought were my friends have not been near my prison all this day."

Gascoyne said this bitterly, and in great anger.

"Hush!" exclaimed Dick; "not quite so loud, Mister Pirate. You see there is some reason in my puttin' this on your mouth. It'll be as well to let me do it quietly, else I'll have to get a little help."

He pointed to the three stout men who stood motionless and silent in the dark recess.

"Oh, it was cowardly of you to bind my arms before you told me this," said Gascoyne, with flashing eyes. "If my hands were free now—"

He checked himself by a powerful effort, and crushed back the boastful defiance which rose to his lips.

"Now, I'll tell ye what it is, Mister Gascoyne," said Dick Price, "I do believe yer not such a bad feller as they say ye are, an' I'm disposed to be marciful to ye. If yell give me your word of honor that you'll not holler out, and that you'll go with us peaceably, and do wot yer bid, I'll not trouble you with the napkin, nor bind ye up more than I've done already. But" (here Dick spoke in tones that could not be misunderstood), "if ye won't give me that promise, I'll gag ye and bind ye neck and heels, and we'll carry ye out o' this, shoulder high. Now, wot say ye to that?"

Gascoyne had calmed his feelings while the boatswain was speaking. He even smiled when he replied, "How can you ask me to give my word of honor? What honor has a pirate to boast of, think you?"

"Not much, pr'aps," said Dick; "howsomdever, I'll be content with wot's left of it; and if there ain't none, why, then, give us yer word. It'll do as well."

"After all, it matters little what is done with me," said Gascoyne, in a resigned-voice. "I am a fool to resist thus. You need not fear that I will offer any further resistance, my man. Do your duty, whatever that may be."

"That won't do," said Dick, stoutly; "ye must promise not to holler out."

"I promise," said Gascoyne, sternly. "Pray cease this trifling; and, if it is not inconsistent with your duty, let me know where I am to be taken to."

"That's just wot I'm not allowed for to tell. But you'll find it out in the coorse of time. Now, all that you've got to do is to walk by my side, and do wot I tell ye."

The prisoner made no answer. He was evidently weary of the conversation, and his thoughts were already wandering on other subjects.

The door was now unlocked by one of the three men who stood near it. As its hinges creaked, Dick shut the lantern, and threw the cell at once into total darkness. Taking hold of Gascoyne's wrist gently, as if to guide, not to force him away, he conducted him along the short passage that led to the outer door of the prison. This was opened, and the whole party stood in the open air.

Gascoyne looked with feelings of curiosity at the men who surrounded him; but the night was so intensely dark that their features were invisible. He could just discern the outlines of their figures, which were enveloped in large cloaks. He was on the point of speaking to them, when he remembered his promise to make no noise; so he restrained himself, and followed his guard in silence.

Dick and another man walked at his side, the rest followed in rear. Leading him round the outskirts of the village, towards its northern extremity, Gascoyne's conductors soon brought him to the beach, at a retired spot, where was a small bay. Here they were met by one whose stature proved him to be a boy. He glided up to Dick, who said, in a low whisper:

"Is all ready?"

"All right," replied the boy, in a whisper.

"The ooman aboard?"

"Aye."

"Now, Mr. Gascoyne," said Dick, pointing to a large boat floating beside the rocks on which they stood, "you'll be so good as to step into that 'ere boat, and sit down beside the individual you see a-sitting in the stern-sheets."

"Have you authority for what you do?" asked Gascoyne, hesitating.

"I have power to enforce wot I command," said Dick, quietly. "Remember yer promise, Mister Pirate, else—"

Dick finished his sentence by pointing to the three men who stood near—still maintaining a silence worthy of Eastern mutes; and Gascoyne, feeling that he was completely in their power, stepped quickly into the boat, and sat down beside the "individual" referred to by Dick, who was so completely enveloped in the folds of a large cloak as to defy recognition. But the pirate captain was too much occupied with his own conflicting thoughts and feelings to bestow more than a passing glance on the person who sat at his side. Indeed, it was not surprising that Gascoyne was greatly perplexed by all that was going on at that time; for he could not satisfactorily account to himself for the mystery and secrecy which his guards chose to maintain. If they were legitimate agents of the law, why these muffled oars, with which they swept the boat across the lagoon, through the gap in the coral reef, and out to sea? And if they were not agents of the law, who were they, and where were they conveying him?

The boat was a large one, half-decked, and fitted to stand a heavy sea and rough weather. It would have moved sluggishly through the water had not the four men who pulled the oars been possessed of more than average strength. As soon as they passed the barrier reef, the sails were hoisted, and Dick took the helm. The breeze was blowing fresh off the land, and the water rushed past the boat as she cut swiftly out to sea, leaving a track of white foam behind her. For a few minutes the mass of the island was dimly seen rising like a huge shade on the dark sky, but soon it melted away, and nothing remained for the straining eyes to rest upon save the boat with its silent crew and the curling foam on the black sea.

"We've got him safe now, lads," said Dick Price, speaking for the first time that night in unguarded tones. "You'd better do the deed. The sooner it's done the better."

While he was speaking, one of the three men opened a large clasp-knife, and advanced towards Gascoyne.

"Father," said Henry, cutting the rope that bound him, "you are free at last!"

Gascoyne started; but before he had time to utter the exclamation of surprise that sprang to his lips, his hand was seized by the muffled figure that sat at his side.

"O, Gascoyne! forgive us—forgive me!" said Mary Stuart, in a trembling voice. "I did, indeed, know something of what they meant to do, but I knew nothing of the cruel violence that these bonds—"

"Violence!" cried Dick Price. "I put it to yourself, Mister Gascoyne, if I didn't treat ye as if ye wos a lamb?"

"Wot a blissin it is for a man to git his mouth open agin, and let his breath go free," cried Jo Bumpus, with a deep sigh. "Come, Corrie, give us a cheer—hip! hip! hip!—"

The cheer that followed was stirring, and wonderfully harmonious; for it was given in a deep bass and a shrill treble, with an intermediate baritone "Ho!" from Jakolu.

"I know it, Mary—I know it," said Gascoyne; and there was a slight tremor in his deep voice as he drew his wife towards him, and laid her head upon his breast.

"You have never done me an evil turn—you have done me nothing but good—since you were a little child. Heaven bless you, Mary!"

"Now, father," said Henry, "I suppose you have no objection to make your escape?"

"No need to raise that question, lad," said Gascoyne, with a perplexed smile. "I am not quite clear as to what my duty is, now that I am free to go back again and give myself up."

"Go back!—free!" exclaimed John Bumpus, in a tone of withering sarcasm. "So, Mister Gascoyne, ye've got sich an uncommon cargo o' conceit in ye yet, that you actually think ye could go back without so much as saying, By your leave!"

While Jo was speaking, he bared to the shoulder an arm that was the reverse of infantine, and, holding it up, said, slowly:

"I've often had a sort o' desire, d'ye see, to try whether this bit of a limb or the one that's round Mrs. Stuart's waist is the strongest. Now, if you have any desire to settle this question, just try to put, to shove, this boat's head up into the wind—that's all!"

This was said so emphatically by the pugnacious Bumpus that his companions laughed, and Corrie cheered in admiration.

"You see," observed Henry, "you need not give yourself any concern as to this point; you have no option in the matter."

"No, not a bit o' poption in it wotiver; though wot that means I ain't rightly sure," said Dick Price.

"Perhaps I ought to exercise my parental authority over you, Henry," said Gascoyne, "and command you to steer back to Sandy Cove."

"But we wouldn't let him, Mister Pirate," said Dick Price, who, now that his difficult duties were over, was preparing to solace himself with a pipe; an example that was immediately followed by Bumpus, who backed his friend by adding:

"No more we would."

"Nay, then, if Henry joins me," said Gascoyne, "I think that we two will not have a bad chance against you three."

"Come, that's good: so I count for nothing!" exclaimed Corrie.

"Ha! stick up, lad," observed Bumpus. "The niggers wot you pitched into at the mouth o' yon cave didn't think that—eh! didn't they not?"

"Well, well; if Corrie sides with you, I feel that my wisest course is to submit. And now, Henry," said Gascoyne, resuming his wonted gravity of tone and demeanor, "sit down here and let me know where we are going, and what you mean to do. It is natural that I should feel curious on these points, even although I have perfect confidence in you all."

Henry obeyed, and their voices sank into low tones as they mingled in earnest converse about their future plans.

Thus did Gascoyne, with his family and friends, leave Sandy Cove in the dead of that dark night, and sail away over the wide waste of the great Pacific Ocean.

* * * * *

Reader, our tale is nearly told. Like a picture it contains but a small portion of the career of those who have so long engaged your attention, and, I would fain hope, your sympathy. The life of man may be comprehensively epitomized almost to a point, or expanded out ad infinitum. He was born, he died, is its lowest term. Its highest is not definable.

Innumerable tomes, of encyclopedic dimensions, could not contain, much less exhaust, an account of all that was said and done, and all that might be said about what was said and done, by our ci-devant sandal-wood trader and his friends. Yet there are main points, amid the little details of their career, which it would be unpardonable to pass over in silence. To these we shall briefly refer before letting the curtain fall.

There is a distant isle of the sea, a beautiful spot, an oceanic gem, which has been reclaimed by the word of God from those regions that have been justly styled "the dark places of the earth." We will not mention its name; we will not even indicate its whereabouts, lest we should furnish a clue to the unromantic myrmidons of the law, whose inflexible justice is only equaled by their pertinacity in tracking the criminal to his lair!

On this beautiful isle, at the time of our tale, the churches and houses of Christian men had begun to rise. The natives had begun to cultivate the arts of civilization, and to appreciate, in some degree, the inestimable blessings of Christianity. The plow had torn up the virgin soil, and the anchors of merchant-ships had begun to kiss the strand. The crimes peculiar to civilized men had not yet been developed. The place had all the romance and freshness of a flourishing infant colony.

Early one fine morning, a half-decked boat rowed into the harbor of this isle, and ran alongside the little quay, where the few natives who chanced to be lounging there were filled with admiration at the sight of five stalwart men who leaped upon the rocks, an active lad who held the boat steady, and a handsome middle-aged woman, who was assisted to land with much care by the tallest of her five companions.

There were a few small bales of merchandise in the boat. These being quickly tossed ashore, one of the natives was asked to show the way to the nearest store, where they might be placed in safekeeping.

This done, the largest man of the party, who was clad in the rough garments of a merchant captain, offered his arm to the female, who was evidently his wife, and went off in search of the chief magistrate of the settlement, leaving his companions to look after the boat and smoke their pipes.

The handsome stranger introduced himself to the magistrate as Mr. Stuart; stated that he intended to settle on the island as a general merchant, having brought a few bales of merchandise with him; that he had been bred an engineer and a shipwright, and meant also to work at his old trade, and concluded by asking for advice and general information in regard to the state of trade on the island.

After having obtained all the information on these subjects that the magistrate could give,—insomuch that that functionary deemed him a perfect marvel of catechetical wisdom and agreeable address,—the stalwart stranger proceeded to inquire minutely into the state of religion and education among the natives and settlers, and finally left the charmed magistrate rejoicing in the belief that he was a most intelligent philanthropist, and would be an inestimable acquisition to the settlement.

A small trading-store was soon built. The stranger was not a rich man. He began in a humble way, and sought to eke out his subsistence by doing the ordinary work of a wright. In this latter occupation he was ably assisted by his stout son, Henry; for the duties of the store were attended to chiefly by the lad Corrie, superintended by Mr. Stuart.

The mysterious strangers were a source of much gossip and great speculation, of course, to the good people of Green Isle, as we shall style this gem of the Pacific, in order to thwart the myrmidons of the law! They found them so reserved and uncommunicative, however, on the subject of their personal affairs, that the most curious gossip in the settlement at last gave up speculating in despair.

In other respects, the new family were noted for kindliness and urbanity. Mrs. Stuart, especially, became an intimate friend of the missionary who dwelt there, and one of his hardest working parishioners. Mr. Stuart also became his friend; but the stern gravity of countenance, and reserved, though perfectly well-bred and even kindly manner of the stranger forbade close intimacy. He was a most regular attendant at church, not only on Sundays, but at the weekly-prayer meetings and occasional festivals, and the missionary noticed that his Bible looked as if it were a well-thumbed one.

At first the two seamen, whom people soon found out, were named respectively Jo and Dick, wrought in the wright's workshop, and at all kinds of miscellaneous jobs; besides making frequent and sometimes long voyages in their boat to the neighboring islands. As time flew by, things seemed to prosper with the merchant. The keel of a little schooner was laid. Father, and son, and seamen (as well as the native servant, who was called Jako) toiled at this vessel incessantly until she was finished—then Henry was placed in command of her, Jo and Dick were appointed first and second mates, two or three natives completed the crew, and she went to sea under the somewhat peculiar name of the Avenger.

This seemed to be the first decided advance in the fortunes of the new family. Business increased in a wonderful way. The Avenger returned again and again to the Green Isle laden with rich and varied commodities for the successful merchant. In course of time the old store was taken down, and a new one built; the Avenger was sold, and a large brig purchased; the rather pretty name of which—"Evening Star"—was erased, and the mysterious word Avenger put in its place. Everything, in short, betokened that Mr. Stuart was on the high road to fortune.

But there were some mysteries connected with the merchant which sorely puzzled the wisest heads in the place, and which would have puzzled still wiser heads had they been there. Although it soon became quite evident to the meanest capacity that Mr. Stuart was the richest man on the island, yet he and his family continued to occupy the poor, shabby, little, ill-furnished cottage which they had erected with their own hands when they first landed; and although they sold the finest silks and brocades to the wives and daughters of the other wealthy settlers, they themselves wore only the plainest and most somber fabrics that consisted with respectability.

People would have called them a family of misers but for their goodness of character in other respects, and for the undeniable fact that they were by far the most liberal contributors to the church and to the poor—not only in their own island, but in all the other islands around them.

Another thing that puzzled the mercantile men of the place extremely was the manner in which Mr. Stuart kept his books of business. They soon began to take note that he kept two ledgers and two distinct sets of books—the one set small, the other set very bulky. Some of the more audacious among his customers ventured to peep over his shoulder, and discovered that the small set contained nothing but entries of boats made, and repairs to shipping executed, and work connected exclusively with the shipwright department of his business—while the large books contained entries of those silks, and sugars, and teas, and spices, etc., which turned so much gold into his coffers.

It thus became evident to these men of business that the merchant kept the two departments quite separate, in order to ascertain the distinct profits on each. They were the more amazed at this when they considered that the shipwright work must necessarily be a mere driblet, altogether unworthy the attention of one so wealthy. But that which amazed them most of all was, that such a man, in such circumstances, could waste his time in doing with his own hands the work of an ordinary mechanic—thus (as they concluded) entailing on himself the necessity of devoting much of the night to his more lucrative concern.

These long-headed men of business little knew the man. They did not know that he was great in the highest sense of the term, and that, among other elements of his greatness, he possessed the power of seizing the little things—the little opportunities—of life, and turning them to the best account; and that he not only knew what should be done; and how to do it, but was gifted with that inflexible determination of purpose to carry out a design, without which knowledge and talent can never accomplish great things. The merchant did not, as they supposed, work late at night. He measured his time, and measured his work. In this he was like many other men in this struggling world; but he stuck to his time and to his work, in which respect he resembled the great few whose names stand prominent on the page of history.

In consequence of this, Mr. Stuart wrought with success at both departments of his business, and while in the one he coined thousands, in the other he earned more than the average wages of a working-man.

The Avenger was erratic and uncertain in her voyages. She evidently sailed to the principal islands of the South Seas, and did business with them all. From one of these voyages, Henry, her captain, returned with a wife,—a dark-haired, dark-eyed, lady-like girl,—for whom he built a small cottage beside his father's, and left her there while he was away at sea.

It was observed by the clerks in Mr. Stuart's counting-room, that their chief accountant, Mr. Corrie, was a great letter-writer,—that when one letter was finished, he invariably began another, and kept it by him, adding sheet after sheet to it until the Avenger returned and carried it off. Once Mr. Corrie was called hurriedly away while in the act of addressing one of these epistles. He left it lying on his desk, and a small, contemptible, little apprentice allowed his curiosity so far to get the better of him, that he looked at the address, and informed his companions that Mr. Corrie's correspondent was a certain Miss Alice Mason!

Of course, Mr. Corrie received voluminous replies from this mysterious Alice; and, if one might judge from his expression on reading these epistles (as that contemptible little apprentice did judge), the course of his love ran smoother than usual; thus, by its exceptionality, proving the truth of the rule.

Years passed away. The merchant's head became gray, but his gigantic frame was as straight and his step as firm as ever. His wife, strange to say, looked younger as she grew older! It seemed as if she were recovering from some terrible illness that had made her prematurely old, and were now renewing her youth. The business prospered to such an extent that, by becoming altogether too wonderful, it ceased to be a matter of wonder altogether to the merchants of the Green Isle. They regarded it as semi-miraculous,—the most unprecedented case of "luck" that had ever been heard of in the annals of mercantile history.

But the rich merchant still dwelt in the humble, almost mean cottage, and still wrought as an engineer and shipwright with his own hands.

In the little cottage beside his own there were soon seen (and heard) three stout children, two boys and a girl, the former being named respectively Gascoyne and Henry, the latter Mary. It is needless to say that these were immense favorites with the eccentric merchant.

During all this time there was a firm in Liverpool which received periodical remittances of money from an unknown source. The cashier of that firm, a fat little man, with a face like a dumpling and a nose like a cherry, lived, as it were, in a state of perpetual amazement in regard to these remittances. They came regularly, from apparently nowhere, were acknowledged to nobody, and amounted, in the course of time, to many thousands. This firm had, some years previously, lost a fine vessel. She was named the Brilliant; had sailed for the South Sea Islands with a rich cargo, and was never more heard of. The fat cashier knew the loss sustained by this vessel to a penny. He had prepared and calculated all the papers and sent duplicates on board; and as he had a stake in the venture, he never forgot the amount of the loss sustained.

One day the firm received a remittance from the unknown, with a note to the following effect at the foot of it: "This is the last remittance on account of the Brilliant. The value of the cargo, including compound interest, and the estimated value of the vessel, have now been repaid to the owners."

The fat cashier was thunderstruck! He rushed to his ledger, examined the account, calculated the interest, summed up the whole, and found it correct. He went home to bed, and fell sound asleep in amazement; awoke in amazement; went back to the office in amazement; worked on day after day in amazement; lived, and eventually died, in a state of unrelieved amazement In regard to this incomprehensible transaction!

About the same time that this occurred, Mr. Stuart entered his poor cottage, and finding his wife there, said:

"Mary, I have sent off the last remittance to-day. I have made amends for that evil deed. It has cost me a long and hard struggle to realize the thousands of pounds that were requisite; for some of the goods had got damaged by damp in the cavern of the Isle of Palms; but the profits of my engineering and shipwright business have increased of late, and I have managed to square it all off, with interest. And now, Mary, I can do no more. If I knew of any others who have suffered at my hands. I would restore what I took tenfold; but I know of none. It therefore remains that I should work this business for the good of mankind. Of all the thousands that have passed through my hands, I have not used one penny. You know that I have always kept the business that has grown out of the labors of my own hands distinct from that which has been reared on the stolen goods. I have lived and supported you by it, and now, through God's blessing, it has increased to such an extent that I think we may afford to build a somewhat more commodious house, and furnish it a little better.

"As for the mercantile business, it must go on. It has prospered and still prospers. Many mouths are dependent on it for daily bread. I will continue to manage it, but every penny of profit shall go in charity as long as I live. After that, Henry may do with it as he pleases. He has contributed largely to make it what it is, and deserves to reap where he has sown so diligently. Do you think I am right in all this, Mary?"

We need scarcely remark that Mary did think it all right; for she and Gascoyne had no differences of opinion now.

Soon after this, Corrie went off on a long voyage in the Avenger. The vessel touched at San Francisco, and while there, some remarkable scenes took place between Jo Bumpus and a good-looking woman whom he called Susan. This female ultimately went on board the Avenger, and sailed in her for Green Isle.

On the way thither they touched at one of the first of the South Sea Islands that they came in sight of, where scenes of the most unprecedented description took place between Corrie and a bluff old gentleman named Ole Thorwald, and a sweet, blue-eyed, fair-haired maiden named Alice Mason!

Strange to say, this fair girl agreed to become a passenger in the Avenger; and, still more strange to say, her father and Ole Thorwald agreed to accompany her; also an ancient piece of animated door-matting called Toozle, and a black woman named Poopy, whose single observation in regard to every event in sublunary history was, "Hee! hee!"

On reaching Green Isle, Corrie and Alice were married, and on the same day Bumpus and Susan were also united. There was great rejoicing on the occasion. Ole Thorwald and Dick Price distinguished themselves by dancing an impromptu and maniacal pas de deux at the double wedding!

Of Captain Montague's future career we know nothing. He may have been killed in the wars of his country, or he may have become an admiral in the British navy, for all we know to the contrary. One thing only we are certain of, and that is, that he sailed for England, in the pirate schooner, and seemed by no means to regret the escape of the pirate captain!

Years rolled away. The head of Gascoyne became silvery white; but Time seemed impotent to subdue the vigor of his stalwart frame, or destroy the music of his deep bass voice. He was the idol of numerous grandchildren as well as of a large circle of juveniles, who, without regard to whether they had or had not a right to do so, styled him "Grandfather."