"He's got Singin' Peter a-visitin' him," said Billy. "Don't you hear him?"

"Ay, I hear him, boy. There's no mistakin' Singin' Peter's voice. I'd know it among a thousand."

"If it's hell here," remarked Billy, with a great sigh of satisfaction, after the hymn was done, "it do seem like heaven over there. I only wish we had Jim Frost on board of us instead of that brute Gunter."

"Don't be hard on Gunter, Billy," said Ned. "We don't know what he's got to bear. Some men are born, you see, wi' narves that are for ever screwin' at 'em, an' ticklin' of 'em up; an' other men have narves that always keep smoothin' of 'em down. The last are the pleasantest to have to do with, no doubt, but the others ain't quite so bad as they look sometimes. Their bark is worse than their bite."

"Hush!" exclaimed the boy, holding up a finger at the moment, for Jim Frost's accordion again sent forth its rich tones in the prelude to a hymn. A few moments later and the tuneful voices came rolling towards them in that beautiful hymn, the chorus of which ends:—

"We shall know each other better when the mists are rolled away."

When the last verse was sung little Billy found a tear struggling to get out of each eye, and a lump sticking in his throat, so he turned his head away to conceal them.

"Ain't it beautiful?" he said, when the lump had disappeared.

"And ain't it curious," answered Ned, "that it should touch on what we was talkin' about afore they began? P'r'aps we shall know John Gunter better 'when the mists are rolled away.'"

Billy shook his head dubiously. "I'm not so sure o' that," he said. "Anyhow, there's a deal o' mist to be rolled away before we can know him better."

"There's a breeze comin' up from the south'ard," remarked Ned, who, to say truth, did not seem to care very much about getting to know his surly shipmate better; "we'll have to get your father aboard soon."

"That won't be an easy matter," said Billy, and he was right, for when David Bright was set down with a friend, and a glass, and a pack of cards, it was very difficult to move him. He was, indeed, as fond of gambling as of drinking, and lost much of his hardly earned gains in that way. Billy, therefore, received little but abuse when he tried to induce him to return to his own vessel, but the freshing of the breeze, and a sudden lurch of the smack, which overturned his glass of grog into Gunter's lap, induced him at last to go on deck.

There the appearance of things had changed considerably. Clouds were beginning to obscure the bright sky, the breeze had effectually shattered the clear mirror of the sea, and a swell was beginning to roll the White Cloud, so that legs which would have found it difficult to steady their owners on solid land made sad work of their office on the heaving deck.

"Haul up the boat," cried Brock in a drivelling voice as he came on deck; "where are you steerin' to? Let me take the helm."

He staggered toward the tiller as he spoke, but Dick Herring and one of his mates, seeing that he was quite unable to steer, tried to prevent him. Brock, however, had reached that stage of drunkenness in which men are apt to become particularly obstinate, and, being a powerful man, struggled violently to accomplish his purpose.

"Let him have it," said Herring at last. "He can't do much damage."

When set free, the miserable man grasped the tiller and tried to steady himself. A lurch of the vessel, however, rendered his effort abortive. The tiller fell to leeward. Brock went headlong with it, stumbled over the side, and, before any one could stretch out a hand to prevent it, fell into the sea and sank.

His comrades were apparently sobered in an instant. There was no need for the hurried order to jump into the boat alongside. Ned Spivin and Billy were in it with the painter cast off and the oars out in a couple of seconds. The boat of the White Cloud was also launched with a speed, that only North Sea fishermen, perhaps, can accomplish, and both crews rowed about eagerly while the smack lay-to. But all without success. The unfortunate man was never more seen, and the visitors left the vessel in sobered silence, and rowed, without exchanging a word, to their own smack, which lay about a quarter of a mile distant on the port quarter.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

RUTH AND CAPTAIN BREAM TAKE TO SCHEMING.

Returning to London, we will follow Captain Bream, who, one fine morning, walked up to Mrs Dotropy's mansion at the west end, and applied the knocker vigorously.

"Is Miss Ruth at home?"

Yes, Miss Ruth was at home, and would he walk in.

He was ushered into the library of the mansion; that room in which the Dotropy ancestors, who could not find space among their kindred in the dining-room, held, so to speak, an overflow meeting to themselves. Ruth soon joined him.

"I'm so glad to see you, Captain Bream," she said, shaking with much fervency the hand held out to her. "Sit down. It is so kind of you to come at once to help me in my little schemes—though I have not seen you to explain why I asked you—but there, I was almost off on another subject before I had begun the one I wish to consult you about. And, do you know, captain," added Ruth, with a slightly perplexed look, "I find scheming a very troublesome business!"

"I should think you did, Miss Ruth, and it seems to me that it's always better to go straight at what you've got to do without scheming—all fair an' aboveboard. Excuse me, my dear, but an old man who has sailed your lamented father's ships for over thirty years, and known you since you were a baby, may be allowed to say he's surprised that you should take to scheming."

"An old man who has not only sailed my dear father's ships for over thirty years," said Ruth, "but has brought me toys from all parts of the world, and has, besides, been as true to the family as the needle to the pole—or truer, if all be true that is said of needles—may say to my father's daughter exactly what he pleases without the smallest chance of giving offence. But, let me tell you, sir, that you are a foolish old man, and much too quick in forming your opinions. Scheming is both justifiable and honourable at times—as I shall soon convince you."

A beaming smile overspread the captain's visage as he said—

"Very well, Miss Ruth. Go on."

"But before I go on tell me how are the Miss Seawards?"

"Quite well, I believe. At least I have no reason to think otherwise. Rather thinnish if anything, but filled out wonderfully since I first saw 'em."

"That's good," said Ruth, laughing. "And now, do you know why I asked you to go and lodge with them?"

"Well, I always thought it was because you knew I wanted a lodgin', though I confess it has puzzled me to make out why you wanted me to come to such an out-o'-the-way part o' the city; and, to tell you the truth, it is rather inconvenient, but your letter was so urgent, Miss Ruth, that I knew you must have some good reason, and as your dear father's daughter has a right to command me, I obeyed, as you know, without question."

"You are a good old man," returned Ruth, laying her hand on the brown fist of the captain and looking up in his face with the same loving girlish look that she had bestowed on him many a time in years past on his frequent visits with foreign toys, "and I shall test your goodness a good deal before I have done with you."

"Test away, Miss Ruth. You'll find I can stand a good deal of testin'. I haven't sailed the salt sea for forty years for nothing."

"Well then," said Ruth, looking slightly perplexed again. "What would you do, Captain Bream, if you knew of two ladies who were unable to work, or to find suitable work, and so poor as to be literally starving—what would you do?"

"Give 'em money, of course."

"But suppose that, owing to some delicacy of feeling, or, perhaps, some sort of mistaken pride, they would not accept money, and flushed very much and felt hurt, if you ventured to offer it to them?"

"Why, then, I'd send 'em victuals."

"But suppose," continued Ruth, "that there were great difficulties in the way of doing that, and they felt as much objection to receive gratuitous victuals as money, what would you do then? you would not let them starve, would you?"

"Of course not," returned the captain, promptly. "If it fairly came to that I'd be apt to treat 'em as nurses do obstinate infants and castor oil. I'd take 'em on my knee, force open their mouths, and shove the victuals down their throats."

Ruth burst into a merry little laugh at this.

"But," said she, "don't you think that before proceeding to such forcible treatment you might scheme a little to get them to take it willingly, as nurses sometimes disguise the taste of the oil with coffee or milk?"

"Well, you might scheme a little on that sort of principle, Miss Ruth; but in ordinary cases I prefer straightforward plans myself."

"Then why, let me ask," said Ruth with some severity in her look, "do you dare to scheme with the wind as you and all sailors do when it is dead against you?"

"You're becomin' too deep for me now, my dear; what d'ee mean?"

"When the wind blows dead against you, say from the north," replied Ruth, "don't you begin your naughty—at least your nautical—scheming at once? Don't you lay your course to the nor'-west and pretend you are going in that direction, and then don't you soon tack about—isn't that what you call it—and steer nor'-east, pretending that you are going that way, when all the time you are wanting to go due north? What do you call that, sir, if it is not scheming to circumvent the wind?"

While she was speaking, Captain Bream's smile expanded and broke forth at last in one of his bass broadsides of laughter, which gave Ruth great delight for she had, as a little girl, enjoyed these thunderous laughs excessively, and her taste for them had not departed.

"Well, my dear," said her visitor, "I admit that there are some sorts o' fair-an'-above-board schemin' which ain't dishonourable, or unworthy of a British sailor."

"Very good," returned Ruth; "then listen while I reveal some of my recent scheming. Some time ago I found out that two very dear friends of mine—who were in delicate health and quite unable to work hard, as well as being unable to find any kind of work whatever—were on the point of starvation. They would not accept money. I schemed a little to get them to earn money, but it was not easy, and the result was not a sufficiently permanent income. At last I thought I would try to get them a boarder—a somewhat rich boarder, whose powerful appetite and large meals might leave some crumbs for—"

"You don't mean to tell me, Miss Ruth," interrupted the captain, in amazement, "that the Miss Seawards were in a state of starvation when I went to 'em!"

"Indeed I do," replied Ruth; "at least as nearly in that state as was compatible with existence."

"Well, well," said the captain, "no wonder they looked so thin; and no wonder they're beginnin' to be a little better in flesh now, wi' the legs o' mutton an' chops an' such like things that I get in to take the edge off my appetite—which, as you justly observe, Miss Ruth, is not a bad one. I'm glad you've told me this, however, for I'll go in for extra heavy feedin' now."

"That's right. But stay, Captain Bream, I have not nearly done with my scheming yet. And I shall still want you to help me."

"Go ahead, my dear. I'm your man, for, to tell 'ee the downright truth, I've taken a great fancy to these two sisters, an' would steer a long way out o' my course to help 'em."

"I knew you would," returned Ruth with a little look of triumph. "Whoever comes in contact with these dear friends of mine thinks exactly as you do. Now, their health is not nearly as good as it ought to be, so I want them to have a change of air. You see, the poor little street in which they live is not the freshest in London."

"Exactly so. They want a trip to Brighton or Broadstairs or Ramsgate, and a whiff of fresh sea-air, eh?" said the captain with a look of satisfaction.

"No not to these places," said Ruth; "I thought of Yarmouth."

"Well, Yarmouth—just as good. Any part o' the coast will do to blow the London cobwebs out o' their brains—say Yarmouth."

"Very good, captain, but my difficulty is, how to manage it."

"Nothing easier, Miss Ruth. I will take an afternoon train, run down, hire a lodgin', come up to-morrow, an' carry the Miss Seawards off wi' me."

"But suppose they won't go?"

"But they must go. I'm quite able to take up one under each arm an' carry 'em off by force if they won't."

"I would highly approve of that method, captain, if it were possible, but I'm afraid such things are not permitted in this free country. No, if done at all, the thing must be gone about with a little more care and delicacy."

"Well then, I'll go down an' take a lodgin', an' write up and ask them to pay me a visit for the benefit of their health."

Ruth shook her pretty little head and frowned.

"Won't do," she said. "I know them too well. They're so unselfish that they won't budge a step to benefit themselves."

"H'm! I see, Miss Ruth, we want a little scheming here—eh? Well, I'll manage it. You leave this little matter in my hands, and see if I don't get 'em to visit Yarmouth, by hook or by crook. By the way, Miss Ruth, was it one o' your little schemes, givin' 'em these mitts and comforters to make?"

"Of course it was," Ruth replied with a laugh and a blush. "You see these things are really very much wanted by the North sea fishermen, and a great many benevolent women spend much time in knitting for them—and not only women, but also boys."

"Boys!" echoed the captain in surprise—"boys knit mitts and comforters?"

"Yes. I assure you that the telegraph boys of the Notting Hill branch of the Post-office have actually spent some of their spare time in doing this work."

"I'll look upon telegraph boys with more respect ever after this," said the captain with emphasis.

"Well, as I was saying," continued Ruth, "Mamma bought far more worsted for me than I could ever find time to work up into mitts or comforters, so I have employed the Miss Seawards to do it for me—at so much a pair. But they don't know it's for me, so be careful not to—"

"Yes, yes, I see—more scheming. Well, I'll take care not to blab."

"And I sent the worsted and arranged the transaction through such a dear pretty little fisher-boy from Yarmouth. But perhaps you have seen him at your lodging."

"No, I haven't seen him, but I've heard a good deal about him. The ladies seem to be as much impressed with his sweetness and prettiness as yourself, Miss Ruth. For my part, I'm not over fond o' sweet pretty boys. I prefer 'em rough-cast or even ugly, so long's they're smart an' willin'."

"Oh! but you have no idea what a smart and willing boy he is," said Ruth, firing up in defence of her little friend. "I assure you he is most willing and intelligent, and I do believe he would scratch his face and twist his little nose into a screw if by so doing he could make himself ugly, for I have observed that he is terribly annoyed when people call him pretty—as they often foolishly do."

"Well, I'll be off now on this little business," said the captain, rising and smoothing his hat with his cuff. "But—but—Miss Ruth— excuse me, you said something about sending the Miss Seawards a rich lodger when you sent me. How d'ee know I'm rich?"

"Well, I only guessed it," returned Ruth with a laugh, "and, you know, more than once you have hinted to me that you had got on very well—that God had prospered you—I think these were the words you have sometimes used."

"These are the words I would always use," returned the captain. "The prosperity that has attended me through life I distinctly recognise at being the result of God's will, not of my wisdom. Don't we see that the cleverest of men sometimes fail, and, on the other hand, the most stupid fellows sometimes succeed? It is God that setteth up one and putteth down another."

"I'm glad to hear that you think so clearly on this point, captain, though I did not know it before. It is another bond between us. However, if I have been wrong in supposing you to be rich, I—"

"Nay, I did not deny it, Miss Ruth, but it does not follow that a man means to say he is rich when he says that he has got on very well. However, my dear, I don't mind tellin' you, as a secret that I am rich—as rich, that is, as there's any use to be, an' far richer than I deserve to be. You must know," continued the captain, sinking his voice to a hoarse whisper, "that your dear father used to allow me to put my savin's into his hands for investment, and the investments succeeded so well that at last I found myself in possession of five hundred a year!"

Captain Bream said this with much deliberation and an emphatic nod for each word, while he gazed solemnly in Ruth's face. "Not a bad fortune for an old bachelor, eh? Then," he continued, after a moment's pause, "when I was wrecked, two years ago in Australia, I took a fancy to have a look at the gold diggin's, so off I went to Bendigo, and I set to work diggin' for the mere fun o' the thing, and the very first day I turned up a nugget as big as my fist and two of the same sort the day after, an' then a lot o' little ones; in fact I had got hold of a first-rate claim, an' when I had dug away for a month or so I put it all in a big chest, sold the claim, and came straight home, bringin' the chest with me. I have it now, up in my cabin yonder. It well-nigh broke my back gittin' it up the stair, though my back ain't a weak one."

"And how much is the gold worth?" eagerly asked Ruth, who had listened with a sympathetic expression on her face.

"That's more than I can tell. I scarce know how to go about convertin' it into cash; but I'm in no hurry. Now mind, Miss Ruth, not a word o' this to any livin' soul. Not even to your own mother, for she ain't my mother, d'ee see, an' has no right to know it. In fact I've never told it to any one till this day, for I have no one in the wide world to care about it. Once, indeed, I had—"

He stopped short.

"Ah! you are thinking of your sister?" said the sympathetic Ruth; "the sister whom you once told me about long ago."

"Yes, Miss Ruth, I was thinkin' o' her; but—" He stopped again.

"Do tell me about her," said Ruth, earnestly. "Has she been long dead?"

"Dead! my dear. I didn't say she was dead, an' yet it ain't unlikely she is, for it's long, long since I heard of her. There's not much to tell about her after all," said the captain, sadly. "But she was a dear sweet little girl at the time—just turned eighteen—an' very fond o' me. We had no parents living, an' no kindred except one old aunt, with whom my sister lived. I was away at the time on a long voyage, and had to take a cargo from the East Indies to China before returnin' home. At Hongkong I fell ill, an' was laid up there for months. Altogether a good many troubles came on me at that time—though they were blessed troubles to me, for they ended in the saving o' my soul through my eyes bein' opened to see my sins and Jesus Christ as my Saviour. It was three years before I set foot in England again, and when I got back I found that my old aunt was dead, and that my dear sister had married a seaman and gone away—no one knew where."

"And you've never heard of her since?" asked Ruth.

"Never."

"And don't know who she married?"

"Know nothin' more about her, my dear, than I've told 'ee. Good-bye now, Miss Ruth. I must look sharp about this business of yours."

He showed such evident disinclination to continue the painful subject, that Ruth forbore to press it, and they parted to prosecute their respective schemes.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

CAPTAIN BREAM DEVELOPS A CAPACITY FOR SCHEMING.

At dinner that day Captain Bream paused in the act of conveying a whole potato to his mouth on the end of his fork, and said—

"Miss Seaward, I'm going to leave you—"

"Leave us!" cried Kate, interrupting him with a look of consternation, for she and Jessie had both become so fond of the amiable seaman, with the frame of Goliath and the heart of Samuel, that they were now as much afraid of losing, as they had formerly been of possessing him. "Leave us, captain!"

"Only for a time, Miss Kate—only for a time," he replied, hastily, as he checked the power of further utterance with the potato. "Only for a time," he repeated, on recovering the power. "You see, I've got a little bit of business to transact down at Yarmouth, and it will take me a good while to do it. Some weeks at the least—perhaps some months— but there's no help for it, for the thing must be done."

The captain said this with so much decision, that Kate could scarcely forbear laughing as she said—

"Dear me, it must be very important business since you seem so determined about it. Is there anything or any one likely to oppose you in transacting the business?"

"Well, not exactly at present," returned the captain blandly, "but there are two obstinate friends of mine who, I have been told, would oppose me pretty stoutly if I was to tell 'em all the truth about it."

"Is there any necessity," asked Jessie, "for telling these obstinate friends anything about the business at all?"

"Well, yes," replied the captain with a chuckle that almost brought on a choking fit; "I can't well avoid tellin' them somethin' about it, for they've a right to know, but—"

"Wouldn't it save you all trouble, then," broke in Kate, seeing his hesitation, "to tell them just as much of the business as they were entitled to know, and no more."

"That's just the very thing I mean to do," replied the captain, bursting into a laugh so deep and thunderous that the small domestic, Liffie Lee, entered the room abruptly to ask if anything was wanted, but in reality to find out what all the fun was about. Having been dismissed with a caution not to intrude again till rung for, the captain helped himself to an enormous slice of beef; earnestly, but unsuccessfully, pressed the sisters to "go in for more and grow fat," and then continued his discourse.

"You must know, ladies, that I have taken to studyin' a good deal in my old age. Another potato—thank 'ee."

"Yes, we have observed that," said Kate. "May I ask what is the nature of your studies—navigation?"

"Navigation!" shouted the captain with another laugh so rich and racy that poor Liffie Lee almost entered in defiance of orders; "no, Miss Kate, it ain't navigation! I've bin pretty well grounded in that subject for the last forty years. No, my study now is theology."

"Theology!" exclaimed the sisters in surprise.

"Yes, theology. Is it so strange, then, that a man drawin' near the close of life should wish to be more particular than when he was young in tryin' to find out all he can about his Maker?" returned the captain gravely.

"Forgive us," said Jessie, hastening to explain; "it is not that. If you had said you had taken to reading the Bible carefully and systematically, we would not have been surprised, but it—it was—your talking so quietly about theology that made us—"

"Yes, yes, I see," interrupted the good-natured seaman; "well, it is reading the Word of God that I mean. You see, I regard the Bible as my class-book, my book o' logarithms, chart compass, rudder, etcetera, all rolled into one. Now, I don't mind tellin' you a secret. When I first went to sea I was a very wild harum-scarum young fellow, an' havin' some sort of influence over my mates, I did 'em a deal of damage and led 'em astray. Well, when the Lord in His great mercy saved my soul, I could not forget this, and although I knew I was forgiven, my heart was grieved to think of the mischief I had done. I felt as if I would give anything in life to undo it if I could. As this was not possible, however, I bethought me that the next best thing would be to do as much good as I could to the class that I had damaged, so, when I came home and left the sea for good, I used to go down about the docks and give away Bibles and Testaments to the sailors. Then I got to say a word or two to 'em now and then about their souls but I soon found that there are professed unbelievers among the tars, an' they put questions that puzzled me at times, so I took to readin' the Bible with a view to answering objectors an' bein' able to give a reason of the hope that is in me—to studyin', in fact, what I call theology. But I ain't above takin' help," continued the captain with a modest look, "from ordinary good books when I come across 'em—my chief difficulty bein', to find out what are the best books to consult, and this has led me sometimes to think of buyin' up all the theological books I can lay hands on, an' glancin' 'em all through so as to make notes of such as seemed worth readin' with care. The labour however seems so great, that up to now I've bin kept back, but I've had a talk with a friend to-day which has decided me, so I'll go off to Yarmouth to-morrow an' buy a whole lot o' theological books—a regular library in fact—and set to work to read up. But there's one thing I would like, which would save me an enormous amount o' labour, if I could get it."

"What is that?" asked the sisters, eagerly, and in the same breath, for they had become quite interested in their friend's aspirations.

"I would like," said the captain, slowly, and fixing his eyes on his plate, for he was now beginning to scheme, "I would like to find some one—a clever boy perhaps, though a girl would be preferable—who would take the trouble off my hands of glancin' through the books first, an' makin' notes of their contents for me, so as to prevent my wastin' time on those that are worthless."

"I fear," said Jessie, "that few boys or girls would be capable of such work, for it would require not only intelligence but a considerable amount of scriptural knowledge."

The captain heaved a deep sigh. "Yes," he said, shaking his head slowly, "you're right, and I'm afraid I'll have to get some grown-up person to help me, but that won't be easy. And then, d'ee know, I don't feel as if I could git on in such investigations with a stranger."

"What a pity," said Kate, "that you could not bring the books here, and then I could help you, for although I do not pretend to be deeply learned in scriptural knowledge, I daresay I know enough for your purpose; but why not get the books in London? Is there any necessity for buying them in Yarmouth?"

Poor Captain Bream was so unused to scheming, that he had made no preparation for such a question, and felt much confused. He could give no good reason for making his purchase in Yarmouth, and nothing would have induced him to tell a falsehood.

"Well, really," he said, after a few moments' hesitation, "there are circumstances sometimes in a man's life which render it difficult for him to explain things, but—but I have a reason for wishin' to buy this library in Yarmouth, an' it seems to me a good one. Besides, I've got a likin' for sea-air, bein' my native air, so to speak, and I've no doubt that theology would come more easy to me if I was in a snug little room facin' the sea, where I could see the blue waters dancin', an' the shipping go by, an' the youngsters playin' on the sands. Yes, it must be done at Yarmouth. London would never do; it's too hot an' stuffy. Not that I care for that, but then you might—ah—that is—I mean to say—you might agree with me on this point if you were there. But why," he added with fresh animation as he saw the way opening up before him, "why, Miss Kate, since you are so kind as to say you'd like to help me, why might you not take a run down to Yarmouth with me, an' help me there?"

"Because," answered Kate, laughing, "I could not very well leave my sister alone."

"Of course not—quite right, but there's no need for that; she could come too, and it would do you both much good, not to speak o' the immense advantage to me! I do assure you I'd feel well-nigh as helpless as an infant, if left to tackle this business alone."

From this point there began a regular skirmish between the captain and the sisters; the one trying to convince the others that it would be doing him a favour for which he could never find words to thank them, and the others endeavouring to show by every sort of argument that the thing was utterly unpossible, that the captain little knew what a burden he proposed to take on his shoulders, and that there was no use whatever in talking about it.

But Captain Bream was a man of resolution. He stuck to his point and pleaded his own cause so powerfully that the sisters began to waver.

"But think," urged Kate, who did the most of the fighting, "you forget Liffie Lee. She is no longer a mere visitor for an hour or two of a morning, as she used to be, but a regular hired servant and we could not leave her behind."

"I know that. It was my coming that made you hire her; and, now I think of it, I've a right to claim at least part of her, so she can come too, an' we'll lock up the house an' get Mr Green-grocer to look after it— air it now and then. Come, just make up your minds. Only think, how beautiful the blue sea will be just now, an' the sunny skies, an' the yellow sands—I declare it makes me long to go. An' then you'll see that pretty boy you've taken such a fancy to—what's 'is name?"

"Billy Bright," said Kate.

"Just so—Billy Bright—though I can't say that I'm over fond o' pretty little boys. They're too often soft an'—"

"But I tell you he's as bold as a lion, and wise as a man, and tough as—as—"

"As a beefsteak," said the captain; "yes, yes, I know all that, and I'm quite prepared to believe that he is an exception. Well, now, it's agreed to—is it?"

But the sisters did not at once give in. They fought on with true feminine courage until the captain tried the effect of deep dejection and innocent submission, when their tender hearts could stand out no longer, and, hauling down their colours, they finally agreed to become librarians and accompany their lodger to Yarmouth.

Then the captain left them to report the victory to his commodore, Ruth Dotropy.

"I never had such a battle in my life!" he said to that scheming young creature. "They didn't give in till they'd fired off every shot in their locker. Trafalgar and the Nile were nothin' to it."

"But do you really mean to say," asked Ruth, who could hardly speak at first for laughing, "that you intend to buy all these theological books and set the sisters to work?"

"To be sure I do. You didn't suppose that I was goin' to tell a parcel o' lies to help out your schemes, my dear? It has been for some months past simmerin' in my brain that I ought to go through a small course of education in that line. And all you have done for me is to make me go in for it somewhat sooner, and a little heavier than I had intended in the way of books. And there's no doubt I'll study better at the sea-side than in London. Besides, I shall have the fishermen to try the effects of my studies on, and you may be sure I won't let the poor things work too hard at the books."

"I'll trust you for that," said Ruth.

Now, while these little plans were being arranged, an event was pending in the North Sea fleet which merits particular notice.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

RUN DOWN IN A FOG—CAPTAIN BREAM ACTS SURPRISINGLY.

One day a fishing-smack was on the eve of quitting the Short Blue fleet for its little holiday of a week in port. It was the Sparrow, of which Jim Frost was master. A flag was flying to indicate its intention, and invite letters, etcetera, for home, if any of the crews should feel disposed to send them.

Several boats put off from their respective smacks in reply to the signal. One of these belonged to Singing Peter.

"Glad to see you, Peter," said Jim Frost as the former leaped on the Sparrow's deck.

"Same to you, lad. I wish you a pleasant spell ashore, and may the Master be with you," returned Peter.

"The Master is sure to be with me," replied Frost, "for has he not said, 'I will never leave thee?' Isn't it a fine thing, Peter, to think that, whatever happens, the Lord is here to guard us from evil?"

"Ay, Jim, an' to take us home when the time comes."

"'Which is far better,'" responded Jim.

"You'll not get away to-night," remarked Peter as he gazed out upon the sea. "It's goin' to fall calm."

"No matter. I can wait."

"What say ye, lad, to a hymn?" said Peter.

"I'm your man," replied Jim, with a laugh, "I thought it wouldn't be long before Singin' Peter would want to raise his pipe."

"He can't help it, d'ee see," returned Peter, answering the laugh with a smile; "if I didn't sing I'd blow up. It's my safety-valve, Jim, an' I like to blow off steam when I gets alongside o' like-minded men."

"We're all like-minded here. Fetch my accordion," said Jim, turning to one of his men.

In a few minutes a lively hymn was raised in lusty tones which rolled far and wide over the slumbering sea. Then these like-minded men offered up several prayers, and it was observed that Jim Frost was peculiarly earnest that night. Of course they had some more hymns, for as the calm was by that time complete, and it was not possible for any sailing vessel to quit the fleet, there was no occasion to hurry. Indeed there is no saying how long these iron-framed fishermen would have kept it up, if it had not been for a slight fog which warned the visitors to depart.

As the night advanced the fog thickened, so that it was not possible to see more than fifty yards around any of the fishing-smacks.

Now it is probably known to most people that the greatest danger to which those who do business on the sea are exposed is during fog.

When all around is calm and peaceful; when the sound of voices comes with muffled sound over the smooth water; when the eye sees nothing save a ghostly white horizon all round close at hand; when almost the only sound that breaks on the ear is the gentle lapping of the sea, or the quiet creak of plank and spar, as the vessel slowly lifts and falls on the gentle swell, and when landsmen perchance feel most secure—then it is that the dark cloud of danger lowers most heavily, though perhaps unrecognised, over the mariner, and stirs him to anxious watchfulness, when apparently in profoundest repose.

Jim Frost knew well the dangers of the situation, but he had been long accustomed to face all the dangers peculiar to his calling on the deep without flinching—strong in the confidence of his well-tried courage and seamanship, and stronger still in his trust in Him who holds the water in the hollow of His hand. Many a time had he been becalmed in fog on the North Sea. He knew what to do, kept the fog-horn blowing, and took all the steps for safety that were possible in the circumstances.

But, somehow, the young fisherman did not feel his usual easy-going indifference on that particular night, though his trust in God was not less strong. He felt no fear, indeed, but a solemn sobriety of spirit had taken the place of his wonted cheery temperament, and, instead of singing in lively tones as he paced the deck, he hummed airs of a slow pathetic kind in a soft undertone.

It is often said that men receive mysterious intimations, sometimes, of impending disaster. It may be so. We cannot tell. Certainly it seemed as if Jim Frost had received some such intimation that night.

"I can't understand it, Evan," he said to his mate when the latter came on deck a little after midnight to relieve him. "A feeling as if something was going to happen has taken possession of me, and I can't shake it off. You know I'm not the man to fancy danger when there's none."

Evan—a youth whom he had been the means of rescuing when about to fall, under great temptation—replied that perhaps want of sleep was the cause.

"You know," he said, "men become little better than babbies when they goes long without sleep, an' you've not had much of late. What with that tearin' o' the net an' the gale that's just gone, an' that book, you know—"

"Ah!" interrupted Jim, "you mustn't lay the blame on the book, Evan. I haven't bin sittin' up very late at it; though I confess I'm uncommon fond o' readin'. Besides, it's a good book, more likely to quiet a man's mind than to rouse it. How we ever got on without readin' before that mission-ship came to us, is more than I can understand! Why, it seems to have lifted me into a new world."

"That's so. I'm fond o' readin' myself," said Evan, who, although not quite so enthusiastic or intellectual as his friend, appreciated very highly the library-bags which had been recently sent to the fleet.

"But the strange thing is," said Jim, returning to the subject of his impressions—"the strange thing is, that my mind is not runnin' on danger or damaged gear, or books, or gales, but on my dear wife at home. I've bin thinkin' of Nancy in a way that I don't remember to have done before, an' the face of my darlin' Lucy, wi' her black eyes an' rosy cheeks so like her mother, is never absent from my eyes for a moment."

"Want o' sleep," said the practical Evan. "You'd better turn in an' have a good spell as long as the calm lasts."

"You remember the patch o' green in front o' my cottage in Gorleston?" asked Jim, paying no attention to his mate's advice.

"Yes," answered Evan.

"Well, when I was sittin' for'ard there, not half-an-hour since, I seed my Nancy a-sittin' on that green as plain as I see you, sewin' away at somethin', an' Lucy playin' at her knee. They was so real-like that I couldn't help sayin' 'Nancy!' an' I do assure you that she stopped sewin' an' turned her head a-one side for a moment as if she was listenin'. An' it was all so real-like too."

"You was dreamin'; that was all," said the unromantic Evan.

"No, mate. I wasn't dreamin'," returned Jim. "I was as wide awake as I am at this moment for I was lookin' out all round just as keen as if I had not bin thinkin' about home at all."

"Well, you'd as well go below an' dream about 'em now if you can," suggested Evan, "an' I'll keep a sharp look-out."

"No, lad, I can't. I'm not a bit sleepy."

As Jim said this he turned and went to the bow of the smack.

At that moment the muffled sound of a steamer's paddles was heard. Probably the fog had something to do with the peculiarity of the sound, for next moment a fog-whistle sounded its harsh tone close at hand, and a dark towering shadow seemed to rush down upon the Sparrow.

Even if there had been a breeze there would have been no time to steer clear of the danger. As it was, the little vessel lay quite helpless on the sea, Evan shouted down the companion for the men to turn out for their lives. The man at the bow sounded the fog-horn loud and long. At the same instant Jim Frost's voice rang out strong and clear a warning cry. It was answered from above. There were sudden screams and cries. The fog-whistle shrieked. Engines were reversed. "Hard a-port!" was shouted. Steam was blown off, and, amid confusion and turmoil indescribable, an ocean steamer struck the little Sparrow amidships, and fairly rammed her into the sea.

It could scarcely be said that there was a crash. The one was too heavy and the other too light for that. The smack lay over almost gracefully, as if submitting humbly to her inevitable doom. There was one great cry, and next moment she was rolling beneath the keel of the monster that had so ruthlessly run her down.

Not far off—so near indeed that those on board almost saw the catastrophe—lay the Evening Star. They of course heard the cries and the confusion, and knew only too well what had occurred.

To order out the boat was the work of an instant. With powerful strokes Joe, Spivin, Trevor, and Gunter, caused it to leap to the rescue. On reaching the spot they discovered and saved the mate. He was found clinging to an oar, but all the others had disappeared. The steamer which had done the deed had lowered a boat, and diligent search was made in all directions round the spot where the fatal collision had occurred. No other living soul, however, was found. Only a few broken spars and the upturned boat of the smack remained to tell where Jim Frost, and the rest of his like-minded men, had exchanged the garb of toil for the garments of glory!

As a matter of course this event made a profound impression for a time on board of the Evening Star and of such vessels as were near enough next morning to be informed of the sad news. A large portion of the fleet, however, was for some time unaware of what had taken place, and some of the masters and crews, who were averse to what they styled "psalm-singin' and prayin'," did not seem to be much affected by the loss.

Whether grieved or indifferent however, the work of the fleet had to be done. Whether fishermen live or die, sink or swim, the inexorable demand of Billingsgate for fish must be met! Accordingly, next day about noon, a fresh breeze having sprung up, and a carrier-steamer being there ready for her load, the same lively scene which we have described in a previous chapter was re-enacted, and after the smacks were discharged they all went off as formerly in the same direction, like a shoal of herrings, to new fishing-grounds.

When they had got well away to the eastward and were beating up against a stiff northerly breeze, David Bright who stood near the helm of the Evening Star, said to his son in a peculiarly low voice—

"Now, Billy, you go below an' fetch me a glass of grog."

Billy went below as desired, but very unwillingly, for he well knew his father's varying moods, and recognised in the peculiar tone in which the order was given, a species of despondency—almost amounting to despair— which not unfrequently ushered in some of his worst fits of intemperance.

"Your fadder's in de blues to-day," said Zulu, as he toiled over his cooking apparatus in the little cabin; "when he spok like dat, he goes in for heavy drink."

"I know that well enough," returned Billy, almost angrily.

"Why you no try him wid a 'speriment?" asked the cook, wrinkling up his nose and displaying his tremendous gums.

"For any sake don't open your mouth like that, Zulu, but tell me what you mean by a 'speriment," said the boy.

"How kin I tell what's a 'speriment if I'm not to open my mout'?"

"Shut up, you nigger! an' talk sense."

"Der you go agin, Billy. How kin I talk sense if I'm to shut up? Don't you know what a 'speriment is? Why it's—it's—just a 'speriment you know—a dodge."

"If you mean a dodge, why don't you say a dodge?" retorted Billy; "well, what is your dodge? look alive, for daddy'll be shoutin' for his grog in a minute."

"You jus' listen," said the cook, in a hoarse whisper, as he opened his enormous eyes to their widest, "you jus' take a wine-glass—de big 'un as your fadder be fond of—an' put in 'im two teaspoonfuls o' vinegar, one tablespoonful o' parafine hoil, one leetle pinch o' pepper, an' one big pinch ob salt with a leetle mustard, an' give 'im dat. Your fadder never take time to smell him's grog—always toss 'im off quick."

"Yes, an' then he'd toss the wine-glass into my face an' kick me round the deck afterwards, if not overboard," said Billy, with a look of contempt. "No, Zulu, I don't like your 'speriment, but you've put a notion into my head, for even when a fool speaks a wise man may learn—"

"Yes, I often tink dat," said the cook, interrupting, with a look of innocence. "You quite right, so speak away, Billy, an' I'll learn."

"You fetch me the wine-glass," said the boy, sharply.

Zulu obeyed.

"Now, fill it up with water—so, an' put in a little brown sugar to give it colour. That's enough, stir him up. Not bad rum—to look at. I'll try father wi' that."

Accordingly, our little hero went on deck and handed the glass to his father—retreating a step or two, promptly yet quietly, after doing so.

As Zulu had said, David Bright did not waste time in smelling his liquor. He emptied the glass at one gulp, and then gazed at his son with closed lips and gradually widening eyes.

"It's only sugar and water, daddy," said Billy, uncertain whether to laugh or look grave.

For a few moments the skipper was speechless. Then his face flushed, and he said in a voice of thunder, "Go below an' fetch up the keg."

There was no disobeying that order! The poor boy leaped down the ladder and seized the rum-keg.

"Your 'speriment might have been better after all, Zulu," he whispered as he passed up again, and stood before his father.

What may have passed in the mind of that father during the brief interval we cannot tell, but he still stood with the empty wine-glass in his hand and a fierce expression on his face.

To Billy's surprise, however, instead of seizing the keg and filling out a bumper, he said sternly—"See here," and tossed the wine-glass into the sea. "Now lad," he added, in a quiet voice, "throw that keg after it."

The poor boy looked at his sire with wondering eyes, and hesitated.

"Overboard with it!" said David Bright in a voice of decision.

With a mingling of wild amazement, glee, and good-will, Billy, exerting all his strength, hurled the rum-keg into the air, and it fell with a heavy splash upon the sea.

"There, Billy," said David, placing his hand gently on the boy's head, "you go below and say your prayers, an' if ye don't know how to pray, get Luke Trevor to teach you, an' don't forget to thank God that your old father's bin an' done it at last."

We are not informed how far Billy complied with these remarkable orders, but certain we are that David Bright did not taste a drop of strong drink during the remainder of that voyage. Whether he tasted it afterwards at all must be left for this chronicle to tell at the proper time and place.

At present it is necessary that we should return to Yarmouth, where Captain Bream, in pursuance of his deep-laid schemes, entered a bookseller's shop and made a sweeping demand for theological literature.

"What particular work do you require, sir?" asked the surprised and somewhat amused bookseller.

"I don't know that I want any one in particular," said the captain, "I want pretty well all that have bin published up to this date. You know the names of 'em all, I suppose?"

"Indeed no, sir," answered the man with a look of uncertainty. "Theological works are very numerous, and some of them very expensive. Perhaps if—"

"Now, look here. I've got neither time nor inclination to get upon the subject just now," said the captain. "You just set your clerk to work to make out a list o' the principal works o' the kind you've got on hand, an' I'll come back in the evenin' to see about it. Never mind the price. I won't stick at that—nor yet the quality. Anything that throws light on religion will do."

"But, sir," said the shopman, "some of the theological works of the present day are supposed—at least by the orthodox—to throw darkness instead of light on religion."

"All right," returned the captain, "throw 'em all in. I don't expect divines to agree any more than doctors. Besides, I've got a chart to steer by, called the Bible, that'll keep me clear o' rocks an' shoals. You make your mind easy, an' do as I bid you. Get the books together by six o'clock this evening, an' the account made out, for I always pay cash down. Good-day."

Leaving the bookseller to employ himself with this astounding "order," Captain Bream next went to that part of the town which faces the sea-beach, and knocked at the door of a house in the window of which was a ticket with "lodgings" inscribed on it.

"Let me see your rooms, my good girl," said the captain to the little maid who opened the door.

The little maid looked up at the captain with some surprise and no little hesitancy. She evidently feared either that the rooms would not be suitable for the applicant or that the applicant would not be suitable for the rooms. She admitted him, however, and, leading him up-stairs, ushered him into the parlour of the establishment.

"Splendid!" exclaimed the captain on beholding the large window, from which there was seen a glorious view of the sea, so near that the ships passing through the deep water close to the beach seemed as if they were trying which of them could sail nearest to land without grounding.

"Splendid!" he repeated with immense satisfaction as he turned from the view to the room itself; "now this is what I call fortunate. The very thing—sofa for Miss Jessie—easy-chair for Miss Kate—rocking chair for both of 'em. Nothin' quite suitable for me, (looking round), but that's not difficult to remedy. Glass over the chimney to see their pretty faces in, and what have we here—a press?"

"No, sir," said the little maid, pushing open the door, "a small room off this one, sir."

"Glorious!" shouted the captain, entering and striking the top of the door-way with his head in doing so. "Nothing could be better. This is the theological library! Just the thing—good-sized window, same view, small table, and—well, I declare! if there ain't empty bookshelves!"

"Very sorry, sir," said the little maid, hastening to apologise; "we have no books, but they'll be handy for any books you may bring to the sea-side with you, sir, or for any little knick-knacks and odds and ends."

"Yes, yes, my good girl. I'll fetch a few theological odds and ends to-night that'll p'r'aps fill 'em up. By the way, you've a bedroom, I hope?"

He looked anxious, and the maid, who seemed inclined to laugh, said that of course they had, a nice airy bedroom on the same floor on the other side of the passage—also commanding the sea.

The captain's face beamed again.

"And now, my girl—but, by the way, I shall want another bedroom. Have you—"

"I'm sorry to say that we have not. The rest of the house is quite full."

Captain Bream's face again became anxious. "That's bad," he said; "of course I can get one out o' the house, but it would be inconvenient."

"There is a hattic, sir," said the maid, "but it is 'igh up, and so very small, that I fear—"

"Let me see the attic," said the captain, promptly.

The maid conducted him up another flight of steps to a room, or rather closet, which did not appear to be more than five feet broad and barely six feet long; including the storm-window, it might have been perhaps seven feet long. It was situated in a sort of angle, so that from the window you could have a view of a piece of slate roof, and two crooked chimney pots with a slice of the sea between them. As there was much traffic on the sea off that coast, the slice referred to frequently exhibited a ship or a boat for a few seconds.

"My study!" murmured the captain, looking round on the bare walls, and the wooden chair, and a low bedstead which constituted the furniture. "Not much room for the intellect to expand here. However, I've seen worse."

"We consider it a very good hattic, sir," said the little maid, somewhat hurt by the last remark.

"I meant no offence, my dear," said the captain, with one of his blandest smiles, "only the berth is rather small, d'ee see, for a man of my size. It is first-rate as far as it goes, but if it went a little further—in the direction of the sea, you know—it might give me a little more room to kick about my legs. But it'll do. It'll do. I'll take all the rooms, so you'll consider them engaged."

"But you haven't asked the price of 'em yet sir," said the little maid.

"I don't care tuppence about the price, my dear. Are you the landlady?"

"La! no, sir," replied the girl, laughing outright as they returned to the parlour.

"Well then, you send the landlady to me, and I'll soon settle matters."

When the landlady appeared, the captain was as good as his word. He at once agreed to her terms, as well as her stipulations, and paid the first week's rent in advance on the spot.

"Now," said he, on leaving, "I'll come back this evening with a lot of books. To-morrow forenoon, the ladies for whom the rooms are taken will arrive, please God, and you will have everything ready and in apple-pie order for 'em. I'll see about grub afterwards, but in the meantime you may give orders to have sent in to-morrow a lot o' fresh eggs and milk and cream—lots of cream—and fresh butter and tea and coffee an' suchlike. But I needn't do more than give a wink to a lady of your experience."

With this last gallant remark Captain Bream left the lodging and strolled down to the sea-beach.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

RUTH'S HOPES AS TO HER PLOT BRIGHTEN A LITTLE.

"Mother," said Ruth one day to her dignified parent, "shall you be soon free of engagements?"

"Yes, probably by the end of next week. Why do you ask?"

"Because I am longing to get away to Yarmouth. I had a letter from dear Kate Seaward to-day. They have been a week in their lodging now, and are enjoying it immensely. Here is the letter. Let me read a bit of it to you. She says: 'You have no idea how much we are charmed with this place. It is a perfect paradise! Perhaps part of our feeling of delight is due to the great change from our smoky little residence in London, but you would not wonder at my enthusiasm if you saw the sweet little window beside which I am writing, and the splendid sea—like a great field of clear glass, which spreads away on all sides to the horizon. Oh! I do love the sea—to look at, I mean. You must not suppose, dear, that I have any love left when I am on it. Oh no! The memory of my last crossing of the Channel—that dreadful British Channel—is as fresh as if it had happened yesterday—the heaving of the steamer and the howling of the wind, the staggering of the passengers, and the expression of their faces, to say nothing of their colour. And then the sensations! Appalling is a mild word. It is not appropriate. If I might coin a word, horrific seems more suitable. But words utterly fail when deep and powerful sensations are concerned. I do assure you, Ruth, that I was absolutely indifferent as to what should become of me that dreadful day as I lay extended flat on my back on one of the saloon sofas. And when that nurse with the baby was forced by a lurch of the ship to sit down on me, I do believe that I could have thanked her if she had crushed me out of existence. Yes, I hate the sea as a place of residence, but I love it as an object to be looked at, especially when it is calm and glittering, as it now is, in the early morning sun.

"Talking of the early morning reminds me of good Captain Bream, who is one of the most singular and incomprehensible creatures I ever met with. He is an early riser—not that that makes him singular—but instead of going out to walk he remains up in his pigeon-hole of a room studying theology! And such a miscellaneous collection of books he has got on all sorts of religious controversy! He say he wants to be able to meet the objections of unbelievers whom he sometimes encounters when preaching to sailors. Jessie and I have heard him preach to a number of sailors and fishermen assembled in an old boat-shed, and you have no idea, Ruth, how delightful it is to hear him. So different from what one expected, and so very unlike the preaching of many men. I have often wondered why it is that some men—sensible men, too, in other matters—should think it necessary to talk in a sing-song, or whiny voice, with a pathetic drawl, or through their noses, when they have to speak on religious subjects! I once heard an indignant clergyman say that he thought it was a device of the devil to turn sacred things into ridicule, but I cannot agree with that. It seems to me that men are often too ready to saddle Satan with evil devices which they ought to fix on their own stupid shoulders. Captain Bream simply talks when he preaches; just as if he were talking on any business matter of great importance, and he does it so nicely, too, and so earnestly, like a father talking to his children. Many of the rough-looking fishermen were quite melted, and after the meeting a good many of them remained behind to talk with him privately. Jessie and I are convinced that he is doing a great and good work here. But he is a most eccentric man, and seems a good deal perplexed by his theological studies. The other day Jessie ventured to question him about these, and he became quite energetic as he said:—

"'I tell 'ee what it is, ladies, when I go cruisin' out and in among these theological volumes until I lose my reckoning altogether an' git among shoals an' quicksands that I never so much as heard of before, I just lay hold o' the cable that's made fast to my sheet-anchor, and I haul in on that. Here is the sheet-anchor, he said, pulling his little Bible from his pocket, the Word of God. That's it. When I feel how ignorant an' stoopid an' unlearned I am, I just keep haulin' on the cable till I come to some such word as this, "Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord," an' so I'm comforted, an' my mind's made easy, for, after all we may think and say and read, it must come to this—"Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind." Every man must work out his own theology for himself, accordin' to that Word, and I've worked it out so far by God's blessin', that Jesus Christ—the God—man—is my foundation, the Holy Spirit is my guide, and salvation from sin is my aim and end—not only for myself but for my fellow-sinners.

"'But I must not go on quoting the Captain's sayings and eccentric doings, else I shall never stop.

"'When are you and your mother coming down? I cannot tell how much we long to have you with us to share in our enjoyment of this charming place. And the fisher-people are so interesting too. I don't wonder you took such a fancy to them. Of course we have not had time to make acquaintance with many of them yet. And Jessie has become so engrossed with the Captain's theological books that I can't tear her away from them. At first she began to inspect their contents with a view to tabulate them and help the captain, but she gets so deep in them that she forgets time altogether, and I have often found her, after having been several hours in the library, sitting there poring over a huge volume without having made a single note or jotting! The captain is quite facetious about it, and said yesterday that if she didn't work a little harder he'd have to dismiss her from the service an' ship a new hand. Then he dragged us both out for a long walk on the beach. We cannot resist him. Nobody can. And such cream as we have!—more like thin butter than cream. And such quantities of it too, for he declares he is very fond of it, and must always have plenty on hand. But I cannot help thinking it is for our sakes he has it, for although he talks much about it and makes great demonstration and noise when he drinks it, he does not really consume much—and you know it must be drunk by somebody, else it would spoil. Oh! we are having, as the captain himself says, a remarkably jolly time of it here, and only want you to make our happiness complete. But with all his fun and energy and cheerfulness, I cannot avoid noticing that dear Captain Bream is frequently very pensive and absent. I cannot help thinking sometimes that he is the victim of some secret sorrow.'"

At this point Ruth looked up in her mother's face and burst into a fit of hilarious laughter.

"Only think, mother," she said, "of great big, stout, jolly old Captain Bream having a secret sorrow!"

"My dear," said Mrs Dotropy in a reproachful tone, "you are too flippant in your references to stout old people. You should remember that even the stoutest of them may once have been thin. And it is not impossible that Captain Bream may still be suffering from unrequited affection, or—"

Again Ruth burst into silvery laughter, but checked it and apologised.

"I can't help it mother. It does seem so funny to think of Captain Bream having ever been thin, or with hair on his head, or suffering from disappointed love. I wonder that it does not occur to Kate that the good man is perhaps suffering because of the sorrows of others. It would be much more like his generous and unselfish nature. But now, mother, may I write to Kate and tell her to expect us next week?"

"Yes, I think you may. But why are you in such haste, child?"

"Because I'm burning to clear up that little mystery that I told you of—if indeed it is a mystery, and not a mere fancy."

Ruth sighed as if her spirit were slightly troubled. "Really, child, you have quite raised my curiosity about that mystery as you call it. Why will you not confide in me?"

"Because I may be all wrong, and when I find out that I'm right—if I find out that I'm right—then you shall know all about it."

"And there's that chest, too, that the captain sent here for us to take care of when he left town," continued Mrs Dotropy, "you make quite a mystery about that too, for I see that you know something about it. If I had not perfect confidence in your heart, child, I should feel quite anxious, for it is the first time in your life that you have concealed anything from me."

"Thank you, mother, for trusting my heart," said Ruth, putting an arm round the dignified lady's neck and kissing her.

"That's all very well, Ruth, but I do not put so much trust in your head."

"I'm sorry for that, Mother, but meantime my head says that while it would be wrong in me to keep any secret about myself from you, I have no right to reveal the secrets of others. But about this chest—has the banker sent for it yet?"

"No, not yet but I expect some one from the bank every minute, (she consulted a small jewelled watch), and it is probable that our young friend Mr Dalton himself may come."

"Mr Dalton!" exclaimed Ruth, with a sudden flush that might have indicated pleasure or annoyance. Mrs Dotropy, however, did not observe the flush, but continued—

"The chest seems miraculously heavy. I told James to put it into the store-room, but he could not lift it, although he is a strong man, and had to get the butler's assistance."

At that moment the conversation was interrupted by the door being thrown open, and Mr Dalton was announced.

He was a young man of handsome face and figure, with dark eyes, short curly hair, and a pleasing address.

Apologising for not being more punctual in calling for the chest, he explained that pressing-business had detained him.

"Of course, of course," said Mrs Dotropy, with the familiarity of an old friend—for such she was to the youth—"you men of business always carry about that cloak of pressing-business to cover your sins and shortcomings with."

"Nay, you are unjust," said the young man, "I appeal to Miss Ruth. Did I not say to Captain Bream that I might perhaps have difficulty in getting away at the hour named, as it was a business hour, and, the transaction being of a friendly and private nature—"

"My dear sir," interrupted Mrs Dotropy, "if it is private, pray do not make it public."

"Has not Miss Ruth, then, told you—"

He stopped and looked from one lady to the other.

"Miss Ruth," said that young lady, flushing deeply, "is supposed to know nothing whatever about your transactions with Captain Bream. Shall I go and tell James to carry the box down-stairs, mother?"

Mrs Dotropy gave permission, and Ruth retired. A few minutes later, young Dalton drove away with the captain's chest of gold.

A week after that the mother and daughter drove away from the same door to the railway station, and in process of time found themselves one pleasant afternoon at Yarmouth, in the little parlour with the window that commanded the gorgeous view of the sea, taking tea with the captain himself and his friends Jessie and Kate Seaward.

A lodging had been secured quite close to their own by the Dotropys.

"Now," said Ruth to Jessie that evening in private, with flushed cheeks and eager eyes, "I shall be able to carry out my little plot, and see whether I am right, now that I have at last got Captain Bream down to Yarmouth."

"What little plot?" asked Jessie.

"I may not tell you yet," said Ruth with a laugh. "I shall let you know all about it soon."

But Ruth was wrong. There was destined to be a slip 'twixt the cup and her sweet lip just then, for that same evening Captain Bream received a telegram from London, which induced him to leave Yarmouth hastily to see a friend, he said, and keep an old-standing engagement. He promised, however, to be back in two or three days at furthest.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A CLOUD COMES OVER RUTH'S HOPES, AND DIMS THEIR BRIGHTNESS.

To prevent the reader supposing that there is any deep-laid scheme or profound mystery, with which we mean to torment him during the course of our tale, we may as well say at once that the little plot, which Ruth had in view, and which began to grow quite into a romance the longer she pondered it, was neither more nor less than to bring Captain Bream and Mrs David Bright face to face.

Ruth had what we may style a constructive mind. Give her a few rough materials, and straight-way she would build a castle with them. If she had not enough of material, she immediately invented more, and thus continued her castle-building. Being highly imaginative and romantic, her structures were sometimes amazing edifices, at which orthodox architects might have turned up their noses—and with some reason, too, for poor little Ruth's castles were built frequently on bad foundations, and sometimes even in the air, so that they too often fell in splendid ruins at her feet!

It would not be just however, to say that none of Ruth's buildings stood firm. Occasionally she built upon a good foundation. Now and then she made a straight shot and hit the mark. For instance, the little edifice of cuffs and comforters to the North Sea trawlers survived, and remains to the present day a monument of usefulness, (which few monuments are), and of well-placed philanthropy. It may not, perhaps, be just to say that Ruth actually laid the foundation—conceived the first idea—of that good work, but she was at all events among the first builders, became an active overseer, and did much of the work with her own hands. Still, as we have said, too many of Ruth's castles came to the ground, and the poor thing was so well used to the sight of falling material that she had at last begun to be quite expert in detecting the first symptoms of dissolution, and often regarded them with despairing anxiety. It was so with her when Captain Bream was summoned so suddenly away from Yarmouth.

Eagerly, anxiously, had she planned to get him down to that town for the purpose of confronting him with Mrs David Bright—the reason being that, from various things the captain had said to her at different times, and from various remarks that Mrs Bright had made on sundry occasions, she felt convinced that the North Sea fisherman's wife was none other than Captain Bream's long-lost sister!

It would be well-nigh impossible, as well as useless, to investigate the process of reasoning and the chain of investigation, by which she came to this conclusion, but having once laid the foundation, she began to build on it with her wonted enthusiasm, and with a hopefulness that partial failure could not destroy.

The captain's departure, just when she hoped to put the copestone on her little edifice was a severe blow, for it compelled her to shut up her hopes and fears in her own breast, and, being of a sympathetic nature, that was difficult. But Ruth was a wise little woman as well as sympathetic. She had sense enough to know that it might be a tremendous disappointment to Captain Bream, if, after having had his hopes raised, it were discovered that Mrs Bright was not his sister. Ruth had therefore made up her mind not to give the slightest hint to him, or to any one else, about her hopes, until the matter could be settled by bringing the two together, when, of course, they would at once recognise each other.

Although damped somewhat by this unlooked-for interruption to her little schemes, she did not allow her efforts to flag.

"I see," she said one day, on entering the theological library, where Jessie, having laid down a worsted cuff which she had been knitting, was deep in Leslie's Short and Easy method with the Deists, and Kate, having dropped a worsted comforter, had lost herself in Chalmers's Astronomical Discourses. "I see you are both busy, so I won't disturb you. I only looked in to say that I'm going out for an hour or two."

"We are never too busy, darling," said Jessie, "to count your visits an interruption. Would you like us to walk with you?"

"N-no. Not just now. The fact is, I am going out on a little private expedition," said Ruth, pursing her mouth till it resembled a cherry.

"Oh! about that little plot?" asked Jessie, laughing. Ruth nodded and joined in the laugh, but would not commit herself in words.

"Now, don't work too hard, Kate," she cried with an arch look as she turned to leave.

"It is harder work than you suppose, Miss Impudence," said Kate; "what with cuffs and contradictions, comforters and confusion, worsted helmets and worse theology, my brain seems to be getting into what the captain calls a sort of semi-theological lop-scowse that quite unfits me for anything. Go away, you naughty girl, and carry out your dark plots, whatever they are."

Ruth ran off laughing, and soon found herself at the door of Mrs Bright's humble dwelling.

Now, Mrs Bright, although very fond of her fair young visitor, had begun, as we have seen, to grow rather puzzled and suspicious as to her frequent inquiries into her past history.

"You told me, I think, that your maiden name was Bream," said Ruth, after a few remarks about the weather and the prospects of the Short Blue fleet, etcetera.

"Yes, Miss Ruth," answered Mrs Bright; but the answer was so short and her tone so peculiar that poor scheming little Ruth was quelled at once. She did not even dare to say another word on the subject nearest her heart at the time, and hastily, if not awkwardly, changed the subject to little Billy.

Here indeed she had touched a theme in regard to which Mrs Bright was always ready to respond.

"Ah! he is a good boy, is Billy," she said, "an uncommonly good boy— though he is not perfect by any means. And he's a little too fond of fighting. But, after all, it's not for its own sake he likes it, dear boy! It's only when there's a good reason for it that he takes to it. Did I ever tell you about his kicking a boy bigger than himself into the sea off the end of the pier?"

"No, you never told me that."

"Well, this is how it was. There's a small girl named Lilly Brass—a sweet little tot of four years old or thereabouts, and Billy's very fond of her. Lilly has a brother named Tommy, who's as full of mischief as an egg is full of meat, and he has a trick of getting on the edge of the pier, near where they live, and tryin' to walk on it and encouraging Lilly to follow him. The boy had been often warned not to do it, but he didn't mind, and my Billy grew very angry about it.

"'I don't care about little Brass himself mother,' said Billy to me one day; 'he may tumble in an' be drownded if he likes, but I'm afeared for little Lilly, for she likes to do what he does.'

"So, one day Billy saw Tommy Brass at his old tricks, with Lilly looking on, quite delighted, and what did my boy do, think ye? He went up to Brass, who was bigger and older than himself, and gave him such a hearty kick that it sent him right off into the sea. The poor boy could not swim a stroke, and the water was deep, so my Billy, who can swim like a fish, jumped in after him and helped to get him safe ashore. Tommy Brass was none the worse; so, after wringing the water out of his clothes, he went up to Billy and gave him a slap in the face. Billy is not a boastful boy. He does not speak much when he's roused; but he pulled off his coat and gave Brass such a thump on the nose that he knocked him flat on the sand. Up he jumped, however, in a moment and went at Billy furiously, but he had no chance. My boy was too active for him. He jumped a' one side, struck out his leg, and let him tumble over it, giving him a punch on the head as he went past that helped to send his nose deeper into the sand. At last he beat him entirely, and then, as he was puttin' on his jacket again, he said—'Tommy Brass, it ain't so much on account o' that slap you gave me, that I've licked you, but because you 'ticed Lilly into danger. And, you mark what I say: every time I catch you walkin' on that there pier-edge, or hear of you doin' of it, I'll give you a lickin'.'

"Tommy Brass has never walked on that pier-edge since," concluded Mrs Bright, "but I'm sorry to say that ever since that day Lilly Brass has refused to have a word to say to Billy, and when asked why, she says, ''cause he sowsed an' whacked my brudder Tommy!'"

Thus did Mrs Bright entertain her visitor with comment and anecdote about Billy until she felt at last constrained to leave without having recovered courage to broach again the subject which had brought her to the fisherman's home.

That same afternoon Mrs Bright paid a friendly visit to the wife of her husband's mate.

"I can't think whatever Miss Ruth Dotropy is so curious about me for, she's bin at me again," said Mrs Bright to Mrs Davidson, who was busy with her needle on some part of the costume of her "blessed babby," which lay, like an angel, in its little crib behind the door.

"P'r'aps it's all along of her bein' so interested in you," replied pretty Mrs Davidson. "She asks me many odd questions at times about myself, and my dear Joe, and the babby—though I admit she don't inquire much about my past life."

"Well, that's not surprising," said Mrs Bright with a laugh, as she sat down on a stool to have a chat. "You see, Maggie, you haven't got much of a past life to inquire about, and Joe is such a good man that you've no call to be suspecting anything; but it wasn't always so with my dear David. I wouldn't say it even to you, Maggie, if it wasn't that everybody in Yarmouth knows it—my David drinks hard sometimes, and although I know he's as true as gold to me, an' never broke the laws of the land, everybody won't believe that, you know, and the dear man might fall under suspicion."

"But you don't suppose, if he did," said Mrs Davidson, with a look of surprise, "that Miss Ruth would go about actin' the part of a detective, do you?"

"Well, no, I don't," replied her friend, looking somewhat puzzled. "All the same it is mysterious why she should go on as she's bin doin', asking me what my maiden name was, and who my relations were, and if I ever had any brothers, and when and where I first met wi' David. But whatever her reasons may be I'm resolved that she'll get nothing more out of me."

"Of course," returned Maggie, "you must do as you think right in that matter. All I can say is, I would tell Miss Ruth all that was in my mind without any fear that she'd abuse my confidence."

"Ah! Maggie, I might say that too if my mind and conscience were as clear as yours. But they're not. It is true I have long ago brought my sins to Jesus and had them washed away in His precious blood. And I never cease to pray for my dear David, but—but—"

"Don't you fear, Nell," said Mrs Davidson, earnestly, and in a tone of encouragement. "Your prayer is sure to be answered."

"Oh! Maggie, I try to believe it—indeed I do. But when I see David go down to that—that public-house, and come up the worse o' liquor, an' sometimes little Billy with him with a cigar in his sweet little mouth an' the smell o' drink on him, my heart fails me, for you know what an awful snare that drink is, once it gets the upper hand—and—"

Poor Mrs Bright fairly broke down at this point for a few seconds; and no wonder, for, not even to her most confidential and sympathetic friend could she tell of the terrible change for the worse that came over her husband when the accursed fire-water burned in his veins.

"Nell," said Maggie, laying her work in her lap and taking her friend's hand. "Don't give way like that. God would never ask us to pray for one another, if He didn't mean to answer us. Would He, now?"

"That's true, Maggie, that's true," said Mrs Bright, much comforted. "I never thought of that before. You're young, but you're wise, dear. Of course, the good Lord will never mock us, and if there's anything I have asked for of late, it has been the salvation of David and Billy. What was it, Maggie, that made your Joe first turn his thoughts to the Lord?"

"It was one of his mates. You remember when he sailed wi' that good man, Singin' Peter? Well, Peter used often to speak to him about his soul to no purpose; but that fine man, Luke Trevor, who also sailed wi' Singin' Peter at the time, had a long talk with Joe one night, an' the Holy Spirit made use of his words, for Joe broke down an' gave in. They're both wi' your David and Billy now, so you may be sure they won't throw away the chance they have of speakin' to 'em."

"God grant them success!" murmured Mrs Bright, earnestly.

"Amen!" responded the younger woman. "But, Nell, you haven't told me yet what you think o' the Miss Seawards."

"Think? I think that next to Miss Ruth they are the sweetest ladies I ever met," returned Mrs Bright with enthusiasm. "They are so modest and humble, that when they are putting themselves about to serve you, they almost make you feel that you're doing them a favour. Don't you remember only last week when they came to see poor Jake's boy that was nearly drowned, and insisted on sitting up with him all night—first one and then the other taking her turn till daylight, because Mrs Jake was dead-drunk and not able for anything."

"Remember it?" exclaimed Maggie, "I should think I does, and the awful way Mrs Jake swore at them afore she rightly understood what was wrong."

"Well, did you hear what Mrs Jake said in the afternoon of that same day?"

"No—except that she was more civil to 'em, so I was told."

"Civil! yes, she was more civil indeed. She'd got quite sober by the afternoon, and the neighbours told her how near the boy was to death, and that the doctor said if it hadn't been for the wise and prompt measures taken by the Miss Seawards before he arrived, he didn't believe the boy would have lived—when they told her that, she said nothing. When the Miss Seawards came back in the afternoon, they tapped so gently at the door that you would have thought they were beggars who expected a scolding, an' when Mrs Jake cried out gruffly in her man-like voice, 'Who's that?' they replied as softly as if they had been doing some mischief, 'May we come in?' 'May you come in?' shouted Mrs Jake, so that you might have heard her half way down the street, as she flung the door wide open, 'may angels from heaven come in? yes, you may come in!' an' with that she seized the younger one round the neck an' fairly hugged her, for you see Mrs Jake has strong feelin's, an' is very fond of her boy, an' then she went flop down on a chair, threw her apron over her head, and howled. I can call it by no other name."

"The poor ladies were almost scared, and didn't seem rightly to know how to take it, and Miss Kate—the younger one you know—had her pretty new summer dress awfully crushed by the squeeze, as well as dirtied, for Mrs Jake had been washin', besides cleaning up a bit just before they arrived."

"Well, I never!" exclaimed Maggie in great admiration. "I always thought there was a soft spot in Mrs Jake's heart, if only a body could find it out."

"My dear," said Mrs Bright, impressively, "there's a soft spot I believe in everybody's heart, though in some hearts it's pretty well choked up an' overlaid—"

At that moment a bursting yell from the crib behind the door went straight to the soft spot in Mrs Davidson's heart, and sank deeply into it.

"That blessed babby!" she cried, leaping up in such haste that her work went into the grate, in which, however, there was happily no fire.

"Oh! my darling! you're Joe to the back-bone—though you are a girl— all bounce, an' bang, an' tenderness!"

Seizing the infant in her strong arms she gave it a hug which ought to have produced another yell, but the little one was tough, besides which, she was used to it, and said nothing. The calm did not last long, however. Little Mag, as she was called, felt that her interior somewhere was somehow in want of something, and took the usual way to publish the fact.

After that, conversation became impossible. A storm had burst upon the friends which increased rapidly, so Mrs Bright rose to say good-bye in the midst of a squall which ought to have blown her through the door-way or out at the window into the street. She was not irritated, however. As she left the house followed by the squall, which was soon moderated to a stiffish breeze by distance, the sound called up reminiscences of little Billy, and she smiled as she thought of the unvarying continuity of human affairs—the gush of infant memories, and the squalls of other days.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

TEMPTATION ON THE DEEP.

Let us return once more to the North Sea.

It was drawing towards the close of another fishing period, and the crew of the Evening Star were beginning to think of the pleasures of their week on shore when, one afternoon, their vessel found herself becalmed near to the Dutch man-trap—the vessel laden with that greatest of the world's curses—strong drink.

It is usual, we believe, in ordinary warfare, that, on the eve of a great battle, there should be preparations and indications, more or less obvious, of the coming fight; but it is not always so in spiritual warfare. Sometimes the hardest and most important battles of the Great War are fought on unselected ground, the assault having been delivered unexpectedly and when the soul was off its guard, or, perchance, when it was presuming on fancied security, and relying on its own might instead of the strength of the Lord. So it was at this time with David Bright, skipper of the Evening Star.

Who would have thought, as he sat that day on the rail of his little vessel, calmly looking out to the horizon in anticipation of a good fishing-breeze, that the mighty forces of Good and Evil were mustering unseen for a tremendous conflict, on which, perchance, the angels were permitted to look down with interest, and that the battle-field was to be the soul of that rugged fisherman of the North Sea! He knew not, little dreamed of, what was pending; but the Captain of his salvation knew it all.

There was but one entrance to that battle-field—the gate of man's Free-will. Through that portal the powers of darkness must enter if they gained admittance at all. Elsewhere the walls were high as heaven, deeper than hell, for, except at this point, the fortress was impregnable.

Yet, although David Bright knew not the power nor the number of the mighty forces that were marshalling, he was not entirely ignorant of the war that was going on. There had been some skirmishing already, in front of the gate, in which he had come off victorious. The demon Habit had assaulted him more than once, and had pressed him sore; for a terrible thirst—such, it is said, as only confirmed drunkards understand—had more than once tormented him. When the first attack was made, the sturdy fisherman stood quietly on his deck with hands in pockets and eyes on the horizon, looking as if nothing were going on, and he smiled grimly as he muttered to himself rather than to the demon: "Lucky for me that I made Billy heave it overboard!"

"Oh! but," said the demon, "you were a weak fool when you did that. There's the Coper alongside now; go, get another keg. It is cheap, and you can just take a little drop to relieve that desperate craving. Come, now, be a man, and show that you have powers of self-restraint. You have always boasted of the strength of your will, haven't you? Show it now."

"Ay, an' prove the strength of my will," replied David, with another grim smile, "by givin' in to your will. No, devil! I am a fool, but not quite such a fool as that comes to."

The demon fell back at that and left him.

On the next attack the skipper was worn-out with fatigue and watching. They had had a long spell of dirty weather. Work of the hardest kind— even for a hardy frame—had been done, and there was still work to do, and David's great physical powers were well-nigh used up. The gear was down, and a stiff nor'-west breeze not only drove the smack over the surging waves, but caused her to plunge into them like a wild horse bridled and held back.

"You can't hold out much longer at this rate," whispered the demon. "Take a drop just by way of a medicine to keep you awake and tide you over this bout; and, by good luck, your man Gunter has some grog left in that bottle he got yesterday from the Coper."

"Billy," said David, in a quiet voice, without deigning a reply to his foe, "Billy, my lad, you fetch me a pot o' coffee or tea—whatever's ready, an' let it be hot."

"Yes, father," said Billy, hastening smartly to obey, for he had a very slight suspicion of the conflict that was raging, though his conceptions were far, far short of the reality.

The demon received a staggering blow that time, and he slunk away scowling when he noted the gleam of satisfaction on the victor's face as he handed back the empty pot to his son.

Warfare! yes, little do those who are "dead in trespasses and sins," and those who swim gaily with the current of self-indulgence, know of the ferocious fights, the raging storms, that are going on all round them on battle-grounds which, to all outward appearance, are calm and undisturbed.

But we have said that this was merely skirmishing outside the gate.

It was not till the afternoon referred to at the beginning of this chapter that the grand assault was made.

On that day the skipper of the Evening Star had been subjected to more than ordinary troubles. In the first place, he had brought up a dead man in his net along with the fish—a by no means unknown incident in trawl-fishing experience, for bodies of men who have been washed out of vessels in gales, or drowned in other ways, are sometimes entangled in the gear and brought to the surface. At other times bales and boxes— goods that have been cast away or wrecked—are fished up in this way.

Being in a depressed state of mind, the sight of the dead man made David uncomfortable for a time, but, having thrown the corpse overboard again, he soon forgot it. The next thing that happened was the fishing up of an enormous mass of wreckage, which tore the net almost to pieces, and compelled him to bend on a new one. This was not only a heavy loss of itself, but entailed the loss of the fish that would otherwise have been in the net and poor David Bright, already at zero in his spirits, sank considerably below that point.

But the final disaster was reserved for a later hour. The new net had been shot, and one of the best banks of the fishing-ground had been gone over. The breeze which had carried the fleet along was just beginning to die down when the Admiral made the signal to haul up.

To work they went, therefore—all through the fleet—to hoist in the harvest of the deep.

It was slow and weary work, as well as hard, that hauling in of the great cable with its gear. Between two or three hours they laboured and toiled at it, while the thick veins stood out like cords on the men's necks, and beads of perspiration trickled down their brows.

"It's goin' to be a big haul, father," said Billy, as the crew stopped for a few moments to rest.

"P'r'aps another lump of wreck," replied the skipper, somewhat bitterly.

"I hope not," returned Billy, in a cheery voice, resuming his work of passing the warp down below as it came off the capstan.

At last the end of the bridle came inboard, and the fishermen knew that their toil, for that time at least, was drawing to a close. Excitement of a mild type began to arise in the enthusiastic and hopeful among them.

"Now, boys, heave away," said Joe Davidson, setting the example.

"It seems unwillin' to come, don't it," growled Gunter.

"Dat's 'cause him full ob fishes," said Zulu; "heave away, boys— altogidder!"

He strained with all his might. So did the rest of the crew. Round went the capstan, and in a few minutes the great forty-eight feet beam appeared. This was soon hoisted up by means of tackle, and made fast to the side, and then began the hauling in—we might almost say clawing in—of the net, hand over hand, until the cod-end was visible near the surface. It now became evident that a grand haul had indeed been made, and that it had been the mere weight of the fish that had delayed them so long.

Great was the anxiety of course to secure the prize, and energetic the action displayed. Zulu, being the most active and cat-like, was ordered to pass a rope round the net to which a powerful double block was applied.

"Haul away now, boys," said the skipper, whose spirits were somewhat revived by the sight.

Soon the great balloon-shaped cod-end with its solid mass of fish rose slowly into the air, and some of the men laid hold to be ready to swing it inboard and deposit it on the deck, when, suddenly, the stout rope that bound the lower end of the bag gave way. The entire mass of fish dropped back into the sea, and sank to the bottom!

For a few seconds dead silence ensued, while the men glanced at the empty cod-end, and at each other. Then a terrible oath burst from John Gunter, and a sort of sigh broke from some of the others, as if words were incapable of expressing their feelings—as, indeed, they were! The skipper was standing by the companion-hatch at the moment with a handspike in his grasp. A deep-toned curse issued from his lips when the fish went down, and he dashed the handspike to the deck with fearful violence.

Once again, at this critical moment, the demon ventured to raise his head.

"The Coper's close on the port bow!" he whispered; "go, drown it all in grog, man, and be jolly!"

Jolly! How many men have cast away their souls, for the sake of what is implied in that little word!

And now, alas! the gate of man's Free-will was creaking on its hinges. No created power above or below could have moved that gate save the power of David Bright himself.

"Shove out the boat!" shouted the miserable man, with a fierceness of expression and tone that there was no misunderstanding. Poor Billy understood it well enough.

"Oh! no, father! Don't do it father!" he cried in an entreating voice; but already the little boat was dancing on the waves alongside, with John Gunter in her.

"Jump in, Luke," said Joe Davidson, hastily, for he was anxious that at least one trusty man should be of the party.

Luke jumped in at once, and was instantly followed by Billy. The painter was cast off, and they pulled towards the floating grog-shop.

The tempter received them with a hearty salute.

"Cheap spirits an' cheap baccy!" said John Gunter, as he sat on the rail of the Coper drinking the one and smoking the other, "that's what I likes, an' plenty of both."

"That's so, John," returned David Bright, who sat beside him, and, having already drained several bumpers of the fiery fluid, had quite got over his troubles. "You an' I are of the same mind, John; nevertheless you're a great sulky-faced humbug for all that!"

"What d'ee mean by that?" demanded Gunter, who was becoming rapidly drunk and quarrelsome.

"What do I mean? why, I mean that you're the best man in the smack, out o' sight, an' it's a rare pity that your mother hasn't got half-a-dozen more like you. If she had I'd man the Evening Star with your whole family. Here, give us a hold o' your grapplin'-iron, old man."

He seized Gunter's fist as he spoke, and gave it a shake so hearty and powerful, that he almost hurled that lover of cheap grog and baccy overboard.

"Hold on, skipper!" growled the fisherman, who was for a moment uncertain whether to return the friendly grasp or fight; but the fierce, wild, contemptuous laugh with which David Bright concluded the speech decided him.

"Y'you—you're a jolly good fellow," he stammered; "here, fill up again."

The poor skipper filled up again, and again, until his speech began to grow thick and unsteady.

"Yesh," continued Gunter, doubling his fist and smiting his knee, "I do like sheap grog an' sheap baccy, an' the Coper's the place to get 'em both. Ain't it?"

He looked up sharply at the owner of the Coper, who stood in front of him, and who of course assented cheerfully to the question.

"Ain't it?" he repeated still more sharply, turning to Luke Trevor, who sat close to him with a grave, anxious look. "Why don't you drink?" he added.

"Because I don't want to," returned Luke, quietly.

"D-do-don't want to," returned Gunter, angrily—for it takes little to make some drunk men angry—"You don't want to spend your money, you young miser—that's what you m-mean. An' yet it's sheap enough, I'm sure. You'll not git anything in the fleet so sheap as you will in the Coper."

"There you are wrong," returned Luke, decidedly. "You'll get things cheaper aboard the mission-ship, for they'll give you physic, an' books, an good advice, and help as far as they can, all for nothing—which is cheaper than the Coper's wares."

"Right you are, Luke. Pitch into him," cried David Bright who was fast drinking himself into a state of madness.

"Father," whispered Billy, with an anxious look, "don't you think you've had enough?"

The reply to this was a tremendous cuff on the ear which sent the poor boy staggering backwards, so that he nearly fell. Recovering himself he retired behind the Coper's boat and tried to crush down the sobs that rose in his throat. He was to some extent successful, but a few tears that could not be restrained hopped over his sunburnt cheeks.

It was not pain, nor even the indignity, that drew forth those tears and choking sobs, but the thought that the father he was so fond of had dealt the blow.

Meanwhile Luke Trevor, who felt that matters had reached a dangerous point, rose and went to the place where the boat's painter had been tied. David Bright was sitting close to the spot.

"Don't you think it is time we were going, skipper?" he said, respectfully, as he laid his hand on the rope.

"No, I don't," replied the skipper, sharply. "Leave go that rope."

Luke hesitated. Instantly the enraged skipper leaped up and struck him a blow on the chest which knocked him down. At the same moment, observing that Gunter looked on with a leer of drunken amusement, he transferred his wrath to him, flung the remains of the spirits he had been drinking in the man's face, and made a rush at him. Fortunately Gunter, who had risen, staggered and fell, so that the skipper missed his aim and tumbled over him. In a moment Gunter had regained his feet and prepared for combat, but his adversary's head had struck on the side of the vessel, and he lay stunned and helpless on the deck.

Luke, who had recovered almost immediately, now assisted Gunter and Billy to raise the prostrate man. It was not an easy matter to handle one whose frame was so heavy, but with the assistance of the owner of the Coper they managed it.

"It's only a slight cut," said Billy, looking anxiously round at Trevor.

"Ay, lad, it ain't the cut or the blow as keeps him down, but the grog. Come, we must git him aboard sharp. Haul up the boat Gunter, while I stop the leak in his skull."

With a kerchief, Luke soon bound up the slight wound that the wretched man had received, and then they tried to rouse him, but the effort was in vain. David did indeed recover sufficient intelligence to be able to bellow once or twice for more grog, but he could not be brought to the condition of helping himself in any way.

"What'll we do, Luke?" asked Billy, in a tone and with a look of deep distress, as the huge form of his father lay, a scarcely animate mass, on the deck at his feet. "We must get him aboard somehow."

"Never fear, Billy, my boy," said Luke, cheerfully, "we'll get him aboard somehow. It's not the first time I've had to do it. Come along, Gunter, lend a hand."

"Not I!" said Gunter, with a drunken swagger. "I'm not goin' for an hour or more."

"Oh yes, you are," returned Luke, dipping one of the Coper's buckets over the side and pulling it up full of water.

"No, I ain't. Who'll make me?"

"I will," said Luke, and he sent the contents of the bucket straight into his comrade's face.

"Hooray!" shouted Billy, convulsed at once with delight and surprise at the suddenness of the act to say nothing of its violence. "Give it 'im, Luke—polish 'im off!"

Luke did not however, take the pugnacious boy's advice; instead of awaiting the attack of the enraged Gunter, he ran laughing round the capstan and defied him to catch him. Gunter soon found, after bruising his shins and elbows, and stumbling over ropes, etcetera, that the effort was hopeless, and gave it up.

"But I'll pay you off w'en I gits a hold of 'ee, Luke. You make sure o' that," he growled as he gave up the chase.

"All right, Gunter; I'll give you a chance to-morrow, lad, if you'll only bear a hand wi' the skipper just now."

Without another word Gunter, who was somewhat sobered by the cold bath, went to where the skipper lay, and attempted to raise him. Being joined by the others the skipper was rolled to the side of the vessel, and then lifted in a half-sitting position on to the rail, where he was held in the grasp of Gunter and the Coper's skipper, while Luke and Billy, jumping into the boat, hauled it close under the spot.

There was what Billy called a "nasty jobble of a sea on," so that many difficulties met in the job they had in hand. These may be best stated by the actors themselves.

"Now then, boy, haul up a bit—ever so little, there; too much; ease off a bit. Hold on!"

"All right Luke, but she pitches about so, that a feller can't hit the exact spot."

"Look out now, Gunter," said Luke; "let 'im go so as he'll come plump into my arms. Not too soon, else you'll stand a chance o' sendin' us both through the bottom of the boat."

"No, nor yet too late," cried the anxious Billy, "else he'll go flop into the sea!"

It was nervous work, for if he should go flop into the sea he would have been certain to go down like a stone.

One or two attempts were made. The boat, rising up from a hollow in the sea to a height of several feet, surged close to where the men with their drunken burden stood.