The missionary did not appear to think the plan very hopeful, but as they ran alongside at the moment them was no time for reply.

It was indeed a bewildering scene to which they were introduced on reaching the deck. The confusion of parting friends; of pushing porters with trunks and boxes; perplexed individuals searching for lost luggage; distracted creatures looking for lost relatives; calm yet energetic officers in merchant-service uniform moving about giving directions; active seamen pushing through the crowds in obedience to orders; children of all sizes playing and getting in people's way; infants of many kinds yelling hideously or uttering squalls of final despair. There was pathos and comicality too, intermingled. Behold, on one side, an urchin sitting astonished—up to his armpits in a bandbox through which he has just crashed—and an irate parent trying to drag him out; while, on your other side, stands a grief-stricken mother trying to say farewell to a son whose hollow cheeks, glittering eyes, and short cough give little hope of a meeting again on this side the grave. Above all the din, as if to render things more maddening, the tug alongside keeps up intermittent shrieks of its steam-whistle, for the first bell has rung to warn those who are not passengers to prepare for quitting the steamer. Soon the second bell rings, and the bustle increases while in the excitement of partings the last farewells culminate.

"We don't need to mind that bell, having our boat alongside," said the missionary to Captain Bream, as they stood a little to one side silently contemplating the scene. "You see that smart young officer in uniform, close to the cabin skylight?"

"Yes."

"That's the captain."

"Indeed. He seems to me very young to have charge of such a vessel."

"Not so young as he looks," returned the other. "I shall have to get his permission before attempting anything on board, so we must wait here for a few minutes. You see, he has gone into his cabin with the owners to have a few parting words. While we are standing you'll have one of the best opportunities of seeing the passengers, for most of them will come on deck to bid relatives and friends farewell, and wave handkerchiefs as the tug steams away, so keep your eyes open. Meanwhile, I will amuse you with a little chit-chat about emigrants. This vessel is one of the largest that runs to Australia."

"Indeed," responded the captain, with an absent look and tone that would probably have been the same if his friend had said that it ran to the moon. The missionary did not observe that his companion was hopelessly sunk in the sea of abstraction.

"Yes," he continued, "and, do you know, it is absolutely amazing what an amount of emigration goes on from this port continually, now-a-days. You would scarcely believe it unless brought as I am into close contact with it almost daily. Why, there were no fewer than 26,000 emigrants who sailed from the Thames in the course of last year."

"How many hogsheads, did you say?" asked the captain, still deeply sunk in abstraction.

A laugh from his friend brought him to the surface, however, in some confusion.

"Excuse me," he said, with a deprecatory look; "the truth is, my mind is apt to wander a bit in such a scene, and my eyes chanced to light at the moment you spoke on that hogshead over there. How many emigrants, did you say?"

"No fewer than 26,000," repeated the missionary good-naturedly, and went on to relate some interesting incidents, but the captain was soon again lost in the contemplation of a poor young girl who had wept to such an extent at parting from a female friend, then in the tug, that her attempts to smile through the weeping had descended from the sublime to the ridiculous. She and her friend continued to wave their kerchiefs and smile and cry at each other notwithstanding, quite regardless of public opinion, until the tug left. Then the poor young thing hid her sodden face in her moist handkerchief and descended with a moan of woe to her berth. Despite the comical element in this incident, a tear was forced out of Captain Bream's eye, and we rather think that the missionary was similarly affected. But, to say truth, the public at large cared little for such matters. Each was too much taken up with the pressing urgency of his or her own sorrows to give much heed to the woes of strangers.

"People in such frames of mind are easily touched by kind words and influences," said the missionary in a low voice.

"True, the ground is well prepared for you," returned the captain softly, for another group had absorbed his attention.

"And I distribute among them Testaments, gospels, and tracts, besides bags filled with books and magazines."

"Was there much powder in 'em?" asked the captain, struggling to the surface at the last word.

"I don't know about that," replied his friend with a laugh, "but I may venture to say that there was a good deal of fire in some of them."

"Fire!" exclaimed the captain in surprise. Explanation was prevented by the commander of the vessel issuing at that moment from the cabin with the owners. Hearty shakings of hands and wishes for a good voyage followed. The officers stood at the gangway; the last of the weeping laggards was kindly but firmly led away; the tug steamed off, and the emigrant vessel was left to make her final preparations for an immediate start on her long voyage to the antipodes, with none but her own inhabitants on board, save a few who had private means of quitting.

"Now is our time," said the missionary, hastening towards the captain of the vessel.

For one moment the latter gave him a stern look, as if he suspected him of being a man forgotten by the tug, but a bland smile of good-will overspread his features when the former explained his wishes.

"Certainly, my good sir, go where you like, and do what you please."

Armed with this permission, he and Captain Bream went to work to distribute their gifts.

Most of the people received these gladly, some politely, a few with suspicion, as if they feared that payment was expected, and one or two refused them flatly. The distributers, meanwhile, had many an opportunity afforded, when asked questions, of dropping here and there "a word in season."

As this was the first time Captain Bream had ever been asked to act as an amateur distributer of Testaments and tracts, he waited a few minutes, with one of his arms well-filled, to observe how his companion proceeded, and then himself went to work.

Of course, during all this time, he had not for an instant forgotten the main object of his journey. On the contrary, much of the absence of mind to which we have referred was caused by the intense manner, in which he scanned the innumerable faces that passed to and fro before him. He now went round eagerly distributing his gifts, though not so much impressed with the importance of the work as he would certainly have been had his mind been less pre-occupied. It was observed, however, that the captain offered his parcels and Testaments only to women, a circumstance which caused a wag from Erin to exclaim—

"Hallo! old gentleman, don't ye think the boys has got sowls as well as the faimales?"

This was of course taken in good part by the captain, who at once corrected the mistake. But after going twice round the deck, and drawing forth many humorous as well as caustic remarks as to his size and general appearance, he was forced to the conclusion that his sister was not there. The lower regions still remained, however.

Descending to these with some hope and a dozen Testaments, he found that the place was so littered with luggage, passengers, and children, that it was extremely difficult to move. To make the confusion worse, nearly the whole space between decks had been fitted up with extra berths—here for the married, there for the unmarried—so that very little room indeed was left for passage, and exceedingly little light entered.

But Captain Bream was not affected by such matters. He was accustomed to them, and his eyesight was good. He was bent on one object, which he pursued with quiet, unflagging perseverance—namely, that of gazing earnestly into the face of every woman in the ship.

So eager was the poor man about it that he forgot to offer the last armful of Testaments which he had undertaken to distribute, and simply went from berth to berth staring at the females. He would undoubtedly have been considered mad if it had not been that the women were too much taken up with their own affairs, to think much about any one with whom they had nothing to do.

One distracting, and also disheartening, part of the process was, that, owing to the general activity on board, he came again and again to the same faces in different parts of the vessel, but he so frequently missed seeing others that hope was kept alive by the constant turning up of new faces. Alas! none of them bore any resemblance to that for which he sought so earnestly!

At last he returned to the place where his friend was preaching. By that time, however, the crowd was so great that he could not enter. Turning aside, therefore, into an open berth, with a feeling of weariness and depression creeping over his mind and body, he was about to sit down on a box, when a female voice at the other end of the berth demanded to know what he wanted.

Hope was a powerful element in Captain Bream's nature. He rose quickly and stopped to gaze attentively into a female face, but it was so dark where she sat on a low box that he could hardly see her, and took a step forward.

"Well, Mr Imprence, I hope as you'll know me again," said the woman, whose face was fiery red, and whose nature was furious. "What do you want here?"

The captain sighed profoundly. That was obviously not his sister! Then a confused feeling of incapacity to give a good reason for being there came over him. Suddenly he recollected the Testaments.

"Have one?" he said eagerly, as he offered one of the little black books.

"Have what?"

"A Testament."

"No, I won't have a Testament, I'm a Catholic," said the woman as she looked sternly up.

Captain Bream was considering how he might best suggest that the Word of God was addressed to all mankind, when a thought seemed to strike the woman.

"Are you the cap'n?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied absently, and with some degree of truth.

"Then it's my opinion, cap'n, an' I tell it you to your face, that you ought to be ashamed of yourself to put honest men an' wimen in places like this—neither light, nor hair, nor nothink in the way of hornament to—"

"Captain Bream! are you there, sir?" cried the voice of his friend the missionary at that moment down the companion-hatch.

"Ay, ay, I'm here."

"I've found her at last, sir."

The captain incontinently dropped the dozen Testaments into the woman's lap and went up the companion-ladder like a tree-squirrel.

"This way, sir. She's sittin' abaft the funnel."

In a few seconds Captain Bream and his companion stood before a pretty-faced, fair-haired woman with soft gentle eyes, which suddenly opened with surprise as the two men hurried forward and came to a halt in front of her. The captain looked anxiously at his friend.

"Is this the—" he stopped.

"Yes, that's her," said the missionary with a nod. The captain turned slowly on his heel, and an irrepressible groan burst from him as he walked away.

There was no need for the disappointed missionary to ask if he had been mistaken. One look had sufficed for the captain.

Sadly they returned to the shore, and there the missionary, being near his house, invited Captain Bream to go home with him and have a cup of tea.

"It will revive you, my dear sir," he said, as the captain stood in silence at his side with his head bowed down. "The disappointment must indeed be great. Don't give up hope, however. But your clothes are wet still. No wonder you shiver, having gone about so long in damp garments. Come away."

Captain Bream yielded in silence. He not only went and had a cup of his hospitable friends's tea, but he afterwards accepted the offer of one of his beds, where he went into a high fever, from which he did not recover for many weary weeks.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

THE WRECK OF THE EVENING STAR.

About the time that Captain Bream was slowly recovering from the fever by which he had been stricken down, a disaster occurred out on the North Sea, in connection with the Short Blue, which told powerfully on some of the men of that fleet. This was nothing less than the wreck of the Evening Star.

The weather looked very unsettled the morning on which David Bright's turn came about to quit the fleet and sail for port. He had flown the usual flag to intimate his readiness to convey letters, etcetera, on shore, and had also, with a new feeling of pride, run up his Bethel-Flag to show his true colours, as he said, and to intimate his willingness to join with Christian friends in a parting hymn and prayer.

Some had availed themselves of the opportunity, and, just before starting, the Evening Star ran close to the mission smack.

"Lower the boat, Billy," said the skipper to his son as they sat in the cabin.

"Ay, ay, daddy."

There was a kindliness now in the tone of David Bright's voice when he spoke to Billy that drew out the heart of that urchin as it had never been drawn out before, save by his mother's soft voice, and which produced a corresponding sweetness in the tones of the boy—for "love begets love."

The mission skipper received his visitor with unwonted heartiness.

"I pray the Lord to give you a good time on shore, David," he said, as they went down to the cabin, where some of the other skippers were having a chat and a cup of coffee.

"He'll do that," said David. "He did it last time. My dear missis could scarce believe her ears when I told her I was converted, or her eyes when she saw the Bethel-flag and the temperance pledge."

"Praise the Lord!" exclaimed two or three of those present, with deep sincerity, as David thus referred to his changed condition.

"I can't bide with 'ee, lads," said David, "for time's up, but before startin' I would like to have a little prayer with 'ee, an' a hymn to the Master's praise."

We need not say that they were all ready to comply. After concluding, they saw him into his boat, and bade him God-speed in many a homely but hearty phrase.

"Good-bye, skipper; fare ye well, Billy; the Lord be with 'ee, Joe."

John Gunter was not omitted in the salutations, and his surly spirit was a little, though not much, softened as he replied.

"Fare ye well, mates," shouted David, as he once more stood on his own deck, and let his vessel fall away. A toss of the hand followed the salutation. Little Billy echoed the sentiment and the toss, and in a few minutes the Evening Star was making her way out of the fleet and heading westward.

The night which followed was wild, and the wind variable. Next day the sun did not show itself at all till evening, and the wind blew dead against them. At sunset, red and lurid gleams in the west, and leaden darkness in the east, betokened at the best unsteady weather.

Little did these bold mariners, however, regard such signs—not that they were reckless, but years of experience had accustomed them to think lightly of danger—to face and overcome it with equanimity. In addition to his native coolness, David Bright had now the mighty power of humble trust in God to sustain him.

It still blew hard when they drew near to land, but the wind had changed its direction, blowing more on the shore, and increasing at last to a gale which lined the whole coast with breakers. Before the Evening Star could find refuge in port, night had again descended. Unfortunately it was one of the darkest nights of the season, accompanied with such blinding sleet that it became a difficult matter to distinguish the guiding lights.

"A dirty night, Billy," said David Bright, who himself held the tiller.

"Ay, father, it'll be all the pleasanter when we get home."

"True, lad; the same may be said of the heavenly home when the gales of life are over. D'ee see the light, boy?"

"No, father, not quite sure. Either it's not very clear, or the sleet an' spray blinds me."

"'Let the lower lights be burning,'" murmured the skipper, as a tremendous wave, which seemed about to burst over them, rushed beneath the stern, raising it high in the air. "You see the meanin' o' that line o' the hymn now, Billy, though you didn't when your dear mother taught it you. Bless her heart, her patience and prayers ha' done it all."

For some minutes after this there was silence. The men of the Evening Star were holding on to shroud or belaying-pin, finding shelter as best they could, and looking out anxiously for the "lower lights."

"There'll be some hands missin', I doubt, in the Short Blue fleet to-morrow, father," remarked Billy, with a solemn look.

"Likely enough; God have mercy on 'em," returned Bright. "It wasn't a much stiffer gale than this, not many years gone by, when twenty-seven smacks foundered, and a hundred and eighty souls were called to stand before their Maker."

As David spoke a sullen roar of breaking water was heard on the port bow. They had been slightly misled, either by their uncertainty as to the position of the true lights, or by some false lights on shore. At all events, whatever the cause, they were at that moment driving towards one of the dangerous sand-banks in the neighbourhood of Yarmouth. The course of the smack was instantly changed, but it was too late. Almost before an order could be given she struck heavily, her main-mast went over the side, carrying part of the mizzen along with it. At the same time a wave broke just astern, and rushed over the deck, though happily not with its full force.

Even in that moment of disaster the bold fishermen did not quail. With their utmost energy indeed, but without confusion, they sprang to the boat which, although lifted, had not been washed away. Accustomed to launch it in all weathers, they got it into the water, and, almost mechanically, Ned Spivin and Gunter tumbled into it, while Joe Davidson held on to the painter. Billy Bright was about to follow, but looking back shouted, "Come along, father!" David, however, paid no attention to him. He still stood firmly at the tiller guiding the wreck, which having been lifted off, or over the part of the sand on which she had struck, was again plunging madly onward.

A few moments and one of those overwhelming seas which even the inexperienced perceive to be irresistible, roared after the disabled vessel. As it reached her she struck again. The billow made a clean sweep over her. Everything was carried away. The boat was overturned, the stout painter snapped, and the crew left struggling in the water.

But what of the people on shore when this terrible scene was being enacted? They were not entirely ignorant of it. Through driving sleet and spray they had seen in the thick darkness something that looked like a vessel in distress. Soon the spectral object was seen to advance more distinctly out of the gloom. Well did the fishermen know what that meant, and, procuring ropes, they hastened to the rescue, while spray, foam, sand, and even small pebbles, were swept up by the wild hurricane and dashed in their faces.

Among the fishermen was a young man whose long ulster and cap told that he was a landsman, yet his strength, and his energy, were apparently equal to that of the men with whom he ran. He carried a coil of thin rope in his left hand. With the right he partly shielded his eyes.

"They'll be certain to strike here," cried one of the fishermen, whose voice was drowned in the gale, but whose action caused the others to halt.

He was right. The vessel was seen to strike quite close, for the water was comparatively deep.

"She's gone," exclaimed the young man already referred to, as the vessel was seen to be overwhelmed.

He flung off his top-coat as he spoke, and, making one end of the small line fast round his waist, ran knee-deep into the water. Some of the fishermen acted in a somewhat similar fashion, for they knew well that struggling men would soon be on the shore.

They had not to wait long, for the crew of the Evening Star were young and strong, and struggled powerfully for their lives. In a few minutes the glaring eyes of Zulu appeared, and the young man of the ulster made a dash, caught him by the hair, and held on. It seemed as if the angry sea would drag both men back into its maw, but the men on the beach held on to the rope, and they were dragged safely to land.

A cheer on right and left told that others were being rescued. Then it became known who the wrecked ones were.

"It's the Evening Star!" exclaimed one.

"Poor David!" said another.

Then the cry was raised, "Have 'ee got little Billy?"

"Ay, here he comes!" shouted a strange voice.

It was that of the youth of the ulster, who now stood waist-deep eagerly stretching out his hands, towards an object with which the wild waves seemed to sport lovingly. It was indeed little Billy, his eyes closed, his face white, and his curly yellow hair tossing in the foam, but he made no effort to save himself; evidently the force of the sea and perhaps the cold had been too much for his slight frame to bear.

Twice did the young man make a grasp and miss him. To go deeper in would have perhaps insured his own destruction. The third time he succeeded in catching the boy's hair; the men on shore hauled them in, and soon little Billy lay on the beach surrounded by anxious fishermen.

"Come, mates," said one, in a deep voice, "let's carry him to his mother."

"Not so," said the young man who had rescued Billy, and who had only lain still for a moment where he had fallen to recover breath. "Let him lie. Undo his necktie, one of you."

While he spoke he was busy making a tight roll of his own coat which he immediately placed under the shoulders of Billy, and proceeded at once to attempt to restore breathing by one of the methods of resuscitating the drowned.

The fishermen assisted him, some hopefully, some doubtfully, a few with looks of disbelief in the process. The youth persevered, however, with unflagging patience, well knowing that half-drowned people have been restored after nearly an hour of labour.

"Who is he?" inquired one fisherman of another, referring to the stranger.

"Don't you know him, mate?" asked the other in surprise.

"No, I've just come ashore, you know."

"That's Mr Dalton, the young banker, as takes such a lift o' the temp'rance coffee-taverns an' Blue-Ribbon movement."

"He's comin'-to, sir!" exclaimed a voice eagerly.

This had reference to little Billy, whose eyelids had been seen to quiver, and who presently heaved a sigh.

"Fetch my coat," said Dalton. "He will indeed be restored, thank God."

The big ulster was brought. Billy was carefully wrapped up in it, and one of the stoutest among his fisher friends lifted him in his arms and bore him off to his mother.

"Have all the others been rescued?" inquired Dalton, eagerly, when Billy had been carried away.

No one could answer the question. All knew that some of the Evening Star's crew had been saved, but they could not say how many.

"They've bin taken to the Sailor's Home, sir," said one man.

"Then run up like a good fellow and ask if all are safe," said Dalton. "Meanwhile I will remain here and search the beach lest there should be more to rescue."

Turning again to the foaming sea the young banker proceeded slowly along the shore some distance, when he observed the body of a man being rolled up on the sand and dragged back by each returning wave. Rushing forward he caught it, and, with the aid of the fishermen, carried it beyond the reach of the hungry waves. But these waves had already done their worst. Dalton applied the proper means for restoration, but without success, and again the fishermen began to look gravely at each other and shake their heads.

"Poor woman!" they murmured, but said no more. Their feelings were too deep for speech as they mourned for one who was by that time a widow, though she knew it not.

At that moment some of the men came running down from the town—one, a tall, strong figure, ahead of them. It was Joe Davidson. He had been more exhausted than some of the others on being rescued, and had been led to the Sailor's Home in a scarcely conscious condition. When they began to reckon up the saved, and found that only one was missing, Joe's life seemed to return with a bound. Breaking from those who sought to restrain him he ran down to the beach.

He knelt beside the drowned fisherman with a wild expression in his eyes as he laid hold of something that partly covered the drowned man. It was his own Bethel-flag which David Bright had twisted round his body! Joe sprang up and clasped his hands as if to restrain them from violent action.

"Oh, David!" he said, and stopped suddenly, while the wild look left his eyes and something like a smile crossed his features. "Can it be true that ye've gone so soon to the Better Land?"

The words gathered in force as they were uttered, and it was with a great cry of grief that he shouted, "Oh, David, David! my brother!" and fell back heavily on the sand.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

BILLY AND HIS FATHER RETURN HOME.

Who can describe the strange mingling of grateful joy with bitter anguish that almost burst the heart of David Bright's widow on that terrible night!

She was singing one of the "Songs of Zion," and busy with household cares, preparing for the expected return of her husband and her son, when they carried Billy in.

It might be supposed that she would be anxious on such a stormy night but if the wives of North Sea fishermen were to give way to fears with every gale that blew, they would be filled with overwhelming anxiety nearly all the year round.

When the knock at the door came at last the song ceased, and when the stout fisherman entered with his burden, and a fair curl, escaping from the folds of the ulster, told what that burden was, the colour fled from the poor woman's cheeks, and a sinking of the heart under a great dread almost overcame her.

"He's all right, missus," said the man, quickly.

"Thank God?" gasped Mrs Bright. "Are—are the rest safe?"

"I b'lieve they are. Some of 'em are, I know."

Obliged to be content, for the moment, with the amount of relief conveyed by these words, she had Billy laid on a bed, and bustled about actively rubbing him dry, wrapping him in blankets, applying hot bottles and otherwise restoring him; for as yet the poor boy showed only slight symptoms of returning vitality.

While thus engaged the door burst open, and Maggie Davidson rushed in.

"Oh, Nell!" she exclaimed, "what has happened—is it true—Billy!—dead? No; thank God for that, but—but—the Evening Star must be wrecked! Are the rest safe? Is Joe—"

The excited young wife stopped and gasped with anxiety.

"The Lord has been merciful in sending me my Billy," returned Mrs Bright, with forced calmness, "but I know nothing more."

Turning at once, Maggie rushed wildly from the house intending to make straight for the shore. But she had not gone far when a crowd of men appeared coming towards her. Foremost among these was her own husband!

With a sharp cry of joy she rushed forward and threw herself into his ready arms.

"Oh! praise the Lord," she said; but as she spoke the appearance of her husband's face alarmed her. Glancing hastily at the crowd behind, she cast a frightened look up at Joe's face.

"Who is it?" she asked in a whisper, as four men advanced with slow measured tread bearing between them the form of a man.

"David," he said, while an irrepressible sob convulsed him.

For one moment the comely face of Maggie wore an expression of horror; then she broke from Joe, ran quickly back, and, seizing Mrs Bright in her arms, attempted in vain to speak.

"What—what's wrong, Maggie?"

The poor sympathetic young wife could not utter a word. She could only throw her arms round her friend's neck, and burst into a passion of tears.

But there was no need for words. Mrs Bright knew full well what the tears meant, and her heart stood still while a horror of darkness seemed to sink down upon her. At that moment she heard the tread of those who approached.

Another minute, and all that remained of David Bright was laid on his bed, and his poor wife fell with a low wail upon his inanimate form, while Billy sat up on his couch and gazed in speechless despair.

In that moment of terrible agony God did not leave the widow utterly comfortless, for even in the first keen glance at her dead husband she had noted the Bethel-Flag, which he had shown to her with such pride on his last holiday. Afterwards she found in his pocket the Testament which she had given to him that year, and thus was reminded that the parting was not to be—for ever!

We will not dwell on the painful scene. In the midst of it, Ruth Dotropy glided in like an angel of light, and, kneeling quietly by the widow's side, sobbed as if the loss had been her own. Poor Ruth! She did not know how to set about comforting one in such overwhelming grief. Perhaps it was as well that she did not "try," for certainly, in time, she succeeded.

How Ruth came to hear of the wreck and its consequences was not very apparent, but she had a peculiar faculty for discovering the locality of human grief, a sort of instinctive tendency to gravitate towards it, and, like her namesake of old, to cling to the sufferer.

Returning to her own lodging, she found her mother, and told her all that had happened.

"And now, mother," she said, "I must go at once to London, and tell Captain Bream of my suspicions about Mrs Bright, and get him to come down here, so as to bring them face to face without further delay."

"My dear child, you will do nothing of the sort," said Mrs Dotropy, with unwonted decision. "You know well enough that Captain Bream has had a long and severe illness, and could not stand anything in the nature of a shock in his present state."

"Yes, mother, but they say that joy never kills, and if—"

"Who says?" interrupted Mrs Dotropy; "who are 'they' who say so many stupid things that every one seems bound to believe? Joy does kill, sometimes. Besides, what if you turned out to be wrong, and raised hopes that were only destined to be crushed? Don't you think that the joy of anticipation might—might be neutralised by the expectation,—I mean the sorrow of—of—but it's of no use arguing. I set my face firmly against anything of the sort."

"Well, perhaps you are right, mother," said Ruth, with a little sigh; "indeed, now I think of it I feel sure you are; for it might turn out to be a mistake, as you say, which would be an awful blow to poor Captain Bream in his present weak state. So I must just wait patiently till he is better."

"Which he will very soon be, my love," said Mrs Dotropy, "for he is sure to be splendidly nursed, now he has got back to his old quarters with these admirable Miss Seawards. But tell me more about this sad wreck. You say that the fisherman named Joe Davidson is safe?"

"Yes, I know he is, for I have just seen him."

"I'm glad of that, for I have a great regard for him, and am quite taken with his good little wife. Indeed I feel almost envious of them, they do harmonise and agree so well together—not of course, that your excellent father and I did not agree—far from it. I don't think that in all the course of our happy wedded life he ever once contradicted me; but somehow, he didn't seem quite to understand things—even when things were so plain that they might have been seen with a magnifying-glass—I mean a micro—that is—no matter. I fear you would not understand much better, Ruth, darling, for you are not unlike your poor father. But who told you about the wreck?"

"A policeman, mother. He said it was the Evening Star, and the moment I heard that I hurried straight to Mrs Bright, getting the policeman to escort me there and back. He has quite as great an admiration of Joe as you have, mother, and gave me such an interesting account of the change for the better that has come over the fishermen generally since the Mission vessels carried the gospel among them. He said he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw some men whom he had known to be dreadful characters changed into absolute lambs. And you know, mother, that the opinion of policemen is of much weight, for they are by no means a soft or sentimental race of men."

"True, Ruth," returned her mother with a laugh. "After the scene enacted in front of our windows the other day, when one of them had so much trouble, and suffered such awful pommelling from the drunken ruffian he took up, I am quite prepared to admit that policemen are neither soft nor sentimental."

"Now, mother, I cannot rest," said Ruth, rising, "I will go and try to quiet my feelings by writing an account of the whole affair to the Miss Seawards."

"But you have not told me, child, who is the young man who behaved so gallantly in rescuing little Billy and others?"

A deep blush overspread the girl's face as she looked down, and in a low voice said, "It was our old friend Mr Dalton."

"Ruth!" exclaimed Mrs Dotropy, sharply, with a keen gaze into her daughter's countenance, "you are in love with Mr Dalton!"

"No, mother, I am not," replied Ruth, with a decision of tone, and a sudden flash of the mild sweet eyes, that revealed a little of the old spirit of the De Tropys. "Surely I may be permitted to admire a brave man without the charge of being in love with him!"

"Quite true, quite true, my love," replied the mother, sinking back into her easy-chair. "You had better go now, as you suggest, and calm yourself by writing to your friends."

Ruth hurried from the room; sought the seclusion of her own chamber; flung herself into a chair, and put the question to herself, "Am I in love with Mr Dalton?"

It was a puzzling question; one that has been put full many a time in this world's history without receiving a very definite or satisfactory answer. In this particular case it seemed to be not less puzzling than usual, for Ruth repeated it aloud more than once, "Am I in love with Mr Dalton?" without drawing from herself an audible reply.

She remained in the same attitude for a considerable time, with her sweet little head on one side, and her tiny hands clasped loosely on her lap—absorbed in meditation.

From this condition she at last roused herself to sit down before a table with pen, ink, and paper. Then she went to work on a graphic description of the wreck of the Evening Star,—in which, of course, Mr Dalton unavoidably played a very prominent part.

Human nature is strangely and swiftly adaptable. Ruth's heart fluttered with pleasure as she described the heroism of the young man, and next moment it throbbed with deepest sadness as she told of Mrs Bright's woe, and the paper on which she wrote became blotted with her tears.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.

We have it on the highest authority that it is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasting. This fallen world does not readily believe that, but then the world is notoriously slow to believe the truth, and also rather apt to believe what is false. It was long before even the learned world could be got to believe that the world itself moves round the sun. Indeed it is more than probable that more than half the world does not believe that yet. On the other hand, much of it very likely believes still that the world is flat. A savage of the prairie would almost certainly entertain that fallacy, while a savage of the mountains would perhaps laugh him to scorn, yet neither would admit that it was a globe.

So, mankind is very unwilling to accept the truth that it is better to give than to receive, though such is certainly the case if there be truth in holy writ.

John Gunter had been much impressed, and not a little softened, by the recent catastrophe of the shipwreck and of his skipper's death, but he had not yet been subdued to the point of believing that it would be better to spend an hour with widow Bright than to spend it in the public-house, even though his shipmate Joe Davidson did his best to persuade him of that truth.

"Come," said Joe, as a last appeal, "come, John, what'll our shipmates think of 'ee if you never go near the poor thing to offer her a word o' comfort?"

"I can't comfort nobody," replied Gunter with a surly heave of his shoulder.

"Yes, you can," said Joe, earnestly; "why, the very sight o' you bein' there, out o' respect to David, would do her poor heart good."

The idea of anybody deriving comfort from a sight of him so tickled Gunter that he only replied with a sarcastic laugh, nevertheless he followed his mate sulkily and, as it were, under protest.

On entering the humble dwelling they found Spivin, Trevor, and Zulu already there. Mrs Bright arose with tearful eyes to welcome the new guests. Billy rose with her. He had scarcely left his mother's side for more than a few minutes since the dark night of the wreck, though several days had elapsed.

It was a great era in the life of the fisher-boy—a new departure. It had brought him for the first time in his young life into personal contact as it were, with the dark side of life, and had made an indelible impression on his soul. It did not indeed abate the sprightly activity of his mind or body, but it sobered his spirit and, in one day, made him more of a man than several years of ordinary life could have accomplished. The most visible result was a manly consideration of, and a womanly tenderness towards, his mother, which went a long way to calm Mrs Bright's first outbreak of sorrow.

These rough fishermen—rough only in outward appearance—had their own method of comforting the widow. They did not attempt anything like direct consolation, however, but they sat beside her and chatted in quiet undertones—through which there ran an unmistakable sound of sympathy. Their talk was about incidents and events of a pleasant or cheering kind in their several experiences. And occasionally, though not often, they referred to the absent David when anything particularly favourable to him could be said.

"We've got good news, Joe," said Billy, when the former was seated.

"Ay, Billy, I'm glad o' that. What may the good news be?"

"Another 'Evening Star' has been raised up to us by the Lord," said Mrs Bright, "but oh! it will never shine like the first one to me!" The poor woman could go no further, so Billy again took up the story.

"You know," he said, "that our kind friend Miss Ruth Dotropy has been greatly taken up about us since father went—went home, and it seems that she's bin writin' to Lun'on about us, tellin' all about the wreck, an' about our mistake in goin' to sea, last trip, without bein' inspected, which lost us the insurance-money. An' there's a rich friend o' hers as has sent her a thousand pound to buy mother another smack!"

"You don't say that's true, Billy!" exclaimed Joe, with a look of surprise.

"That's just what I do say, Joe. The smack is already bought, and is to be fitted out at once, an' mother has made you her skipper, Joe, an' the rest have all agreed to go—Zulu as cook—and Gunter too. Won't you, John?"

The boy, who was somewhat excited by the news he had to tell, frankly held out his hand to Gunter, and that worthy, grasping it with an unwonted display of frankness on his part growled—"I'm with 'ee, lad."

"Yes, it's all arranged," resumed Billy, "and we'll not be long o' being ready for sea, so you won't be left to starve, mother—"

Up to this point the poor boy had held on with his wonted vivacity, but he stopped suddenly. The corners of his mouth began to twitch, and, laying his head on his mother's bosom, he sobbed aloud.

It did the widow good to comfort him. The fishermen had an instinctive perception that their wisest course lay in taking no notice, and continuing their low-voiced intercourse.

"Well, now," said Joe, "I have read in story-books of folk bein' as lib'ral sometimes as to give a thousand pounds, but I never thought I'd live to see 'em do it."

"Why, Joe, where have your eyes and ears bin?" said Luke Trevor. "Don't you know it was a lib'ral gentleman, if not two, or p'raps three, as lent the Ensign, our first gospel-ship, to the Mission?"

"That's true, Luke; I forgot that when I spoke, an' there's more gospel-smacks comin', I'm told, presented in the same way by lib'ral folk."

"It's my belief," said Luke, with emphasis, at the same time striking his right knee with his hand, "it's my belief that afore long we'll have a gospel-ship for every fleet on the North Sea."

"Right you are, boy," said Joe, "an' the sooner the better. Moreover, I've heard say that there's a talk about sellin' baccy on board of the mission-ships cheaper than what they do aboard o' the copers. Did any of 'ee hear o' that?"

"I heard somethin' about it," answered Luke, "but it's too good news to be true. If they do, it'll drive the copers off the sea."

"Of course it will. That's just what they're a-goin' to do it for, I suppose."

Reader, the mode of dealing with the abominable "coper" traffic referred to by these men has at last happily been adopted, and the final blow has been dealt by the simple expedient of underselling the floating grog-shops in the article of tobacco. Very considerable trouble and expense have to be incurred by the mission, however, for the tobacco has to be fetched from a foreign port; but the result amply repays the cost for the men naturally prefer paying only 1 shilling per pound on board the mission-ship, to paying 1 shilling 6 pence on board the "coper." The smacksman's advantages in this respect may be better understood when we say that on shore he has to pay 4 shillings per pound for tobacco. But his greatest advantage of all—that for which the plan has been adopted—is his being kept away from the vessel where, while purchasing tobacco, he is tempted to buy poisonous spirits. Of course the anti-smoker is entitled to say "it were better that the smacksman should be saved from tobacco as well as drink!" But of two evils it is wise to choose the less. Tobacco at 1 shilling 6 pence procured in the "coper," with, to some, its irresistible temptation to get drunk on vile spirits, is a greater evil than the procuring of the same weed at 1 shilling in a vessel all whose surroundings and internal arrangements are conducive to the benefit of soul and body.

"D'ye mind the old Swan, boys?" asked an elderly man—a former friend of David Bright who had dropped in with his mite of genuine sympathy.

"What, the first gospel-ship as was sent afloat some thirty years ago? It would be hard to remember what existed before I was born!"

"Well, you've heard of her, anyhow. She was lent by the Admiralty for the work in the year eighteen hundred and something, not to go out like the Ensign to the North Sea fleets, but to cruise about an' visit in the Thames. I was in the Swan myself for a few months when I was a young fellow, and we had grand times aboard of that wessel. It seemed to me like a sort o' home to the sailors that they'd make for arter their woyages was over. Once, I reklect, we had a evenin' service, an' as several ships had come in from furrin parts that mornin' we had the Swan chock-full o' noo hands; but bless you, though they was noo to us they warn't noo to each other. They had many of 'em met aboard the Swan years before. Some of 'em hadn't met for seven and ten year, and sich a shakin' o' hands there was, an' recognisin' of each other!—I thought we'd never get the service begun. Many of 'em was Christian men, and felt like brothers, you see."

"Did many of the masters an' mates come to the services in those days?" asked Joe Davidson.

"Ay, a-many of 'em. W'y, I've seed lots o' both masters an' mates wolunteerin' to indoose their men to come w'en some of 'em warn't willin'—takin' their own boats, too, to the neighbourin' ships an' bringin' off the men as wanted to, w'en the Swan's bell was a-ringin' for service. I heard one man say he hadn't bin to a place o' worship for ten year, an' if he'd know'd what the Swan was like he'd ha' bin to her sooner.

"I mind meetin' wery unexpected with a friend at that time," continued the old fisherman, who saw that his audience was interested in his talk, and that the mind of poor Mrs Bright was being drawn from her great sorrow for a little. "I hadn't met 'im for eight or ten years.

"'Hallo! Abel,' says I, 'is that you?'

"'That's me,' says he, ketchin' hold o' my grapnel, an' givin' it a shake that a'most unshipped the shoulder. 'Leastwise it's all that's left o' me.'

"'What d'ee mean?' says I.

"'I mean,' says he, 'that I've just lost my wessel on the Gunfleet sands, but, thank God, I haven't lost my life, nor none o' my men, though it was a close shave.'

"'How did it happen, Abel?' says I.

"Says he, 'It happened pretty much in the usual way. A gale, wi' sleet that thick we could hardly see the end o' the jib-boom. The moment we struck I know'd it was all over wi' the old wessel, but I didn't see my way to go under without a struggle, so we made a desp'rit attemp' to git out the boats, but a sea saved us the trouble, for it swept 'em all away before we got at 'em, as if they'd bin on'y chips o' wood. Then, as if to mock us, another sea pitched us higher on the sands, so as the decks wasn't washed by every wave quite so bad, but we knew that wouldn't last for the tide was makin' fast, so I calls the crew together, an' says I, "Now, lads, I've often prayed with you an' for you. In a few minutes we'll have to take to the riggin', an' you know what the end o' that's likely to be. Before doin' so, I'll pray again, for nothin' is impossible to the Lord, an' it may be His will to spare us yet a while." Well, I prayed. Then we took to the riggin' to wait for death—or rescue. An' sure enough, after we had bin six hours there, an' was all but frozen, a fishin'-smack came past and took us off.'"

"Now, mates," said Joe Davidson, after they had chatted thus in subdued tones for some time, "it do seem to me that as most of us are of one mind here, and we are, so to speak, of one fisher-family, it might do Mrs Bright good if we was to have a bit of the Word together, and a prayer or two."

As every one agreed to this either heartily or by silence, a Bible was produced, and Joe,—being mate of the late Evening Star, and therefore a sort of natural head of the family—read the portion where God promises to be a Husband to the widow, and a Father to the fatherless.

Then they all knelt while he prayed in simple language for comfort and a blessing to the mourning household. He was followed with a very few but intensely earnest words by Luke. Even John Gunter put up an unpremeditated prayer in the words, "God help us!" uttered in a choking voice, and the old fisherman followed them all with a deep "Amen."

After that they shook hands tenderly with the widow and Billy, and went out silently from the house of mourning.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE CAPTAIN'S APPETITE RESTORED, AND RUTH IN A NEW LIGHT.

Captain Bream reclined one day on a sofa in the sitting-room of the house where he had first made the acquaintance of the Miss Seawards. Both ladies were seated by his side, the one working worsted cuffs and the other comforters, and both found the utmost difficulty in repressing tears when they looked at their kind nautical friend, for a great change had come over him since we last saw him.

We will not venture to state what was the illness that had laid the captain, as he himself expressed it on his beam-ends, but whatever it might have been, it had reduced him to a mere shadow. His once round cheeks were hollow; his eyes were so sunken that they appeared to have retired into the interior of his head, out of which, as out of two deep caverns, they gleamed solemnly. His voice, having been originally pitched so low that it could not well get lower, had become reduced to the sound of a big drum muffled; it had also a faint resemblance to a bassoon with a bad cold. His beard and moustache, having been allowed to grow, bore a striking likeness to a worn-out clothes-brush, and his garments appeared to hang upon a living skeleton of large proportions.

It is right however, to add that this was the worst that could be said of him. The spirit within was as cheery and loving and tender as ever it had been—indeed more so—and the only wonder was that it did not break a hole in the once tough but now thin shell of its prison-house, and soar upwards to its native regions in the sky!

"You must not work so hard at these cuffs, Miss Jessie," he said, with a pleasant though languid smile. "If you do I'll reduce my board."

"But that would only render it necessary that I should work harder," returned Jessie, without checking the pace of the needles.

"It is hard," resumed the captain, "that I should be disobeyed at every turn now that I'm on my beam-ends, with little more strength in me than a new-born kitten. But never mind, I'm beginnin' to feel stronger, and I'll pay you off, my dear, when I'm able to move about."

"Do you really feel a little stronger?" asked Kate, who, although more lively—even mischievous in a small way—than her sister, had been more deeply affected by the captain's long illness, and could not shake off the impression that he was going to die.

"Feel stronger!" exclaimed the wrecked giant. "Give me your hand. D'ee feel that?"

"That" which Kate was to feel was a squeeze as a test of strength.

"There. Doesn't it hurt you? I believe I could make you cry if I was to try."

And the captain did make her cry even without trying, for Kate was so deeply touched with the weakness of the trembling squeeze, coupled with the hearty kindness and little touches of fun in the prostrate man, that she could not keep it down. Rising hurriedly, therefore, she flung her unfinished comforter into Jessie's lap, left the room, and, retiring to her chamber, wept quietly there. Those tears were not now, however, as they had often been, tears of anxious sorrow, but of thankful joy.

Having accomplished this little matter, and relieved her feelings, she returned to the parlour.

"I've been just trying to persuade him, Kate," said Jessie, as the former entered, "that in a week or two a trip to Yarmouth will do him so much good, but he does not seem to think he will be equal to it."

"Come, now, Miss Jessie, that's not a fair way to put it. I have no doubt that I shall be able enough—thanks to the good Lord who has spared me—but what I think is that Yarmouth, pleasant though it be, is not exactly what I want just now."

"What then, do you think would be better for you?" asked Kate.

"'The sea! The sea! The open sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free!'" answered the captain, with a gleam in the sunken eyes such as had not been seen there for many days.

"Horrible thought!" said Jessie, with a pretended shudder.

"You know the proverb, 'What's one man's meat is another man's poison,'" returned the captain. "Ah! ladies, only those who have been cradled on the deep for three quarters of a lifetime, and who love the whistling winds, and the surging waves, and the bounding bark, know what it is to long, as I do, for another rest upon my mother's breast:—

"'And a mother she was and is to me, For I was born—was born on the open sea.'"

"I had no idea you were so poetical," said Jessie, much surprised at the invalid's enthusiasm.

"Sickness has a tendency to make people poetical. I suppose," returned the captain.

"But how are you to manage it? You can scarcely walk yet. Then excuse me, you haven't got a ship, and I fear that not many owners would intrust one to you till you are stronger. So, what will you do?"

"Go as a passenger, my dear. See here; it's all arranged," said the captain, holding up a letter.

"I got this by the post this morning, and want to consult with you about it. Knowing my condition and desires, that excellent man the chaplain, who took me out in his steam-launch the day I got the first shot of this illness, had made known my case to the Director of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, and he has kindly agreed to let me go a trip to the North Sea in one of the mission-ships, on the understanding that I shall do as much of a missionary's work as I am fit for when there."

"But you're not fit for work of any kind!" exclaimed Kate with a flush of indignation which was partly roused by the idea of her friend being taken away from her at a time when he required so much nursing, and partly by the impropriety of so sick a man being expected to work at all.

"True, my dear, but I shall be fit enough in a week or two. Why, I feel strength coming back like a torrent. Even now I'm so hungry that I could devour my—my—"

"Your dinner!" cried Kate, as, at that opportune moment the door opened and Liffie Lee appeared with a tray in her hand.

There could be no doubt as to the captain's appetite. Not only did his eyes glare, in quite a wolfish manner, at the food while it was being set before him, but the enormous quantity he took of that food became quite a source of alarm to the sisters, who watched and helped him.

"Now, captain," said Jessie, laying her hand at last on his thin arm, as it was stretched out to help himself to more, "you really must not. You know the doctor said that it would never do, at first, to—"

"My dear," interrupted the invalid, "hang the doctor!"

"Well, I have no objection to his being hanged, if you don't ask me to do it," returned Jessie, "but really—"

"Oh! let him alone," said Kate, who, being very healthy, shared the captain's unreasonable contempt for medical men, and was more than pleased at the ravenous tendencies of her old friend.

"Now for the sponge-cakes," said the captain, wiping his mouth and rubbing his hands on finishing the first course.

"You are to have none," said Kate, firmly. The captain's face elongated into a look of woe.

"Because you are to have rice-pudding and thick cream instead!" continued Kate.

The captain's face shortened again into a beaming smile.

Liffie Lee appeared at the moment with the viands named.

"I never saw anything like it!" exclaimed Jessie with a short laugh, and a look of resignation.

"I enjoy it so much!" said Kate, pouring out the cream with liberal hand.

Liffie said nothing, but if the widest extension of her lips, and the exposing of her bright little teeth from ear to ear, meant anything, it meant that her sympathies were entirely with Kate.

The captain was helped to pudding in a soup plate, that being relatively a rather small dessert plate for him. He was about to plunge the dessert spoon into it, but stopped suddenly and gazed at it. Then he turned his awful gaze on the small servant who almost shrank before it.

"Liffie, my dear."

"Y-yes, sir."

"Bring me a table-spoon, the biggest one you have."

"Yes, sir," she said,—and vanished. Presently she returned with an enormous gravy spoon.

"Ha! ha!" shouted the captain, with much of his old fire; "that's better than I had hoped for! Hand it here, Liffie; it'll do."

He seized the weapon, and Liffie uttered an involuntary squeal of delight as she saw him sweep up nearly the whole of his first helping, and make one bite of it! He then attempted to smile at Liffie's expression of joy, but did it awkwardly in the circumstances.

Just as he had finished his little repast, and was tranquilly stirring a breakfast cup of coffee, the door bell rang.

A minute later Liffie appeared with her mouth and eyes like three round O's.

"If you please, ma'am, here's Mister and Missis Dalton, as wants to know if they may come in."

"Mr and Mrs who?" exclaimed both sisters.

"Mister an' Missis Dalton," repeated Liffie.

"Show them in—at once, child. Some ridiculous mistake," said Jessie, glancing at Kate. "But, stay, Liffie;—you have no objection, captain?"

"None in the least."

Another moment and Ruth appeared blushing in the door-way, with a handsome young man looming in the background.

"Mr and Mrs Dalton!" said the two sisters with a dazed look as they sank into two chairs.

"Oh no! darling Jessie," cried Ruth, rushing forward and throwing her arms round her friend; "not—not quite that yet, but—but—engaged. And we determined that the very first call we made should be to you, darling."

"Well, now, this is capital! Quite a picture," growled the captain; "does more good to my digestion than—"

"Come," interrupted Jessie, taking Ruth by the hand. "Come to our room!"

Regardless of all propriety, the sisters hurried Ruth off to their bedroom to have it out with her there, leaving young Dalton to face the captain.

"I congratulate you, my lad," said the captain, frankly extending his hand. "Sit down."

Dalton as frankly shook the hand and thanked the captain, as he took a seat beside him.

"I'm deeply grieved, Captain Bream, to see you so much reduced, yet rejoiced to find that you are fairly convalescent."

"Humph! I wouldn't give much for the depth of either your grief or joy on my account seein' that you've managed to get hooked on to an angel."

"Well, I confess," said the youth, with a laugh, "that the joy connected with that fact pretty much overwhelms all other feelings at present."

"The admission does you credit boy, for she is an angel. I'm not usin' figures o' speech. She's a real darlin', A1 at Lloyd's. True blue through and through. And let me tell you, young fellow, that I know her better than you do, for I saw her before you were bor—, no, that couldn't well be, but I knew her father before you were born, and herself ever since she saw the light."

"I'm delighted to have your good opinion of her, though, of course, it cannot increase my estimation of her character. Nothing can do that!"

"Which means that my opinion goes for nothing. Well, the conceit of the rising generation is only equalled by—by that o' the one that went before it. But, now, isn't it strange that you are the very man I want to see?"

"It is indeed," replied Dalton with a slightly incredulous look.

"Yes, the very man. Look ye here. Have you got a note-book?"

"I have."

"Pull it out, then. I want you to draw out my will."

"Your will, Captain Bream!"

"My will," repeated the captain. "Last will an' testament."

"But I'm not lawyer enough to—"

"I know that, man! I only want you to sketch it out. Listen. I'm going in a week or two to the North Sea in a fishing-smack. Well, there's no sayin' what may happen there. I'm not infallible—or invulnerable—or waterproof, though I am an old salt. Now, you are acquainted with all my money matters, so I want you to jot down who the cash is to be divided among if I should go to the bottom; then, take the sketch to my lawyer—you know where he lives—and tell him to draw it out all ship-shape, an' bring it to me to sign. Now, are you ready?"

"But, my dear sir, this may take a long time, and the ladies will probably return before we—"

"You don't bother your head about the ladies, my lad, but do as I tell 'ee. Miss Ruth has got hold of two pair of ears and two hearts that won't be satisfied in five minutes. Besides, my will won't be a long one. Are you ready?"

"Yes," said Dalton, spreading his note-book on his knee.

"Well," resumed the captain, "after makin' all the usual arrangements for all expenses—funeral, etcetera, (of which there'll be none if I go to the bottom), an' some legacies of which I'll tell the lawyer when I see him, I leave all that remains to Miss Jessie and Miss Kate Seaward, share an' share alike, to do with it as they please, an' to leave it after them to whomsoever they like. There!"

"Is that all?"

"Yes, that's all," returned the captain, sadly. "I once had a dear sister, but every effort I have made to find her out has failed. Of course if I do come across her before it pleases the Lord to take me home, I'll alter the will. In the meantime let it be drawn out so."

Soon after this important transaction was finished the ladies returned, much flushed and excited, and full of apologies for their rude behaviour to their male friends.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

OUT WITH THE SHORT BLUE AGAIN.

Pleasant and heart-stirring is the sensation of returning health to one who has sailed for many weeks in the "Doldrums" of Disease, weathered Point Danger, crossed the Line of Weakness, and begun to steer with favouring gales over the smooth sea of Convalescence.

So thought Captain Bream one lovely summer day, some time after the events just narrated, as he sat on the bridge of a swift steamer which cut like a fish through the glassy waves of the North Sea.

It was one of Hewett and Company's carriers, bound for the Short Blue fleet. Over three hundred miles was the total run; she had already made the greater part of it. The exact position of the ever-moving fleet was uncertain. Nevertheless, her experienced captain was almost certain—as if by a sort of instinct—to hit the spot where the smacks lay ready with their trunks of fish to feed the insatiable maw of Billingsgate.

Captain Bream's cheeks were not so hollow as they had been when we last saw him. Neither were they so pale. His eyes, too, had come a considerable way out of the caves into which they had retreated, and the wolfish glare in the presence of food was exchanged for a look of calm serenity. His coat, instead of hanging on him like a shirt on a handspike, had begun to show indications of muscle covering the bones, and his vest no longer flapped against him like the topsail of a Dutchman in a dead calm. Altogether, there was a healthy look about the old man which gave the impression that he had been into dock, and had a thorough overhaul.

Enough of weakness remained, however, to induce a feeling of blessed restfulness in his entire being. The once strong and energetic man had been brought to the novel condition of being quite willing to leave the responsibility of the world on other shoulders, and to enjoy the hitherto unknown luxury of doing nothing at all. So thoroughly had he abandoned himself in this respect, that he did not even care to speak, but was satisfied to listen to others, or to gaze at the horizon in happy contemplation, or to pour on all around looks of calm benignity.

"How do you feel to-day, sir?" asked the mate of the steamer, as he came on the bridge.

"My strongest feeling," said Captain Bream, "is one of thankfulness to God that I am so well."

"A good feelin' that doesn't always come as strong as it ought to, or as one would wish; does it, sir?" said the mate.

"That's true," answered the captain, "but when a man, after bein' so low that he seems to be bound for the next world, finds the tide risin' again, the feelin' is apt to come stronger, d'ee see? D'you expect to make the fleet to-day?"

"Yes, sir, we should make it in the evenin' if the admiral has stuck to his plans."

The captain became silent again, but after a few minutes, fearing that the mate might think him unsociable, he said—

"I suppose the admiral is always chosen as being one of the best men of the fleet?"

"That's the idea, sir, and the one chosen usually is one of the best, though of course mistakes are sometimes made. The present admiral is a first-rate man—a thorough-going fisherman, well acquainted with all the shoals, and a Christian into the bargain."

"Ah, I suppose that is an advantage to the fleet in many respects," said the captain, brightening up, on finding the mate sympathetic on that point.

"It is for the advantage of the fleet in all respects, sir. I have known an ungodly admiral, on a Sunday, when they couldn't fish, an' the weather was just right for heavin'-to an' going aboard the mission smack for service—I've known him keep the fleet movin' the whole day, for nothin' at all but spite. Of course that didn't put any one in a good humour, an' you know, sir, men always work better when they're in good spirits."

"Ay, well do I know that," said the captain, "for I've had a good deal to do wi' men in my time, and I have always found that Christian sailors as a rule are worth more than unbelievers, just because they work with a will—as the Bible puts it, 'unto the Lord and not unto men.' You've heard of General Havelock, no doubt?"

"Oh yes, sir, you mean the Indian general who used to look after the souls of his men?"

"That's the man," returned the captain. "Well, I've been told that on one occasion when the commander-in-chief sent for some soldiers for special duty, and found that most of 'em were drunk, he turned an' said, 'Send me some of Havelock's saints: they can be depended on!' I'm not sure if I've got the story rightly, but, anyhow, that's what he said."

"Ay, sir, I sometimes think it wonderful," said the mate, "that unbelievers don't themselves see that the love of God in a man's heart makes him a better and safer servant in all respects—according to the Word, 'Godliness is profitable to the life that now is, as well as that which is to come.' There's the fleet at last, sir!"

While speaking, the mate had been scanning the horizon with his glass, which he immediately handed to the captain, who rose at once and saw the line of the Short Blue like little dots on the horizon. The dots soon grew larger; then they assumed the form of vessels, and in a short time the carrying-steamer was amongst them, making straight for the admiral, whose smack was distinguishable by his flag.

"What is the admiral's name?" asked the captain as they advanced.

"Davidson—Joe Davidson; one of the brightest young fellows I ever knew," answered the captain of the steamer, who came on the bridge at that moment, "and a true Christian. He is master of the Evening Star."

"Why, I thought that was the name of a smack that was wrecked some time ago near Yarmouth—at least so my friends there wrote me," said Captain Bream with sudden interest; and well might he feel interest in the new Evening Star, for it was himself who had given the thousand pounds to purchase her, at Ruth Dotropy's request, but he had not been told that her skipper, Joe Davidson, had been made admiral of the fleet.

"So it was the Evening Star, sir, that was wrecked, but some open-handed gentleman in London bought a new smack for widow Bright and she called it by the same name, an' the young man, who had been mate with her husband, she has made skipper till her son Billy is old enough to take charge of her. The strangest thing is, that all the old crew have stuck together, and the smack is now one of the best managed in the fleet. Joe wouldn't have been made admiral if that wasn't so."

To this, and a great deal more, the captain listened with great joy and thankfulness, without, however, giving a hint as to his own part in the matter. Originally he had given the thousand pounds to please Ruth, and he had been at that time glad to think that the gift was to benefit a deserving and unfortunate widow. It was not a little satisfactory, therefore, to hear that his gift had been so well bestowed; that it had even become the admiral's vessel, and that he was about to have the opportunity of boarding the new Evening Star and himself inspecting its crew.

"Tell me a little more about this Evening Star," he said to the captain of the steamer. "I have sometimes heard of her from a lady friend of mine, who takes a great interest in her owner, but I was so ill at the time she wrote that I couldn't pay much attention to anything."

Thus invited the captain proceeded to tell all he knew about David Bright and his wife, and Billy, and Luke Trevor, Spivin, Gunter, Zulu, the wreck, the launch of the new smack, etcetera,—much of which was quite new to Captain Bream, and all of which was of course deeply interesting to him.

While these two were conversing the fleet gradually thickened around them, for a light breeze, which seemed to have sprung up for the very purpose, enabled them to close in. Some of the smacks were close at hand; others more distant. To those within hail, the captain and mate of the steamer gave the customary salute and toss of the fist in the air as they passed.

"There's the admiral," said the captain, "two points off the port bow."

"An' the gospel-ship close alongside," said the mate. "Don't you see the M.D.S.F. flag? Trust Joe for bein' near to her when he can manage it. Here they come, fast an' thick. There's the Fern, I'd know her a mile off, an' the Martin, an' Rover, Coquette, Truant! What cheer, boys!"

"Is that the Cherub or the Andax abeam of us?" asked the captain.

"It's neither. It's the Guide, or the Boy Jim, or the Retriever— not quite sure which."

"Now, Captain Bream, shall we put you on board the mission-ship at once, or will you wait to see us boarded for empty trunks?"

"I'll wait," returned Captain Bream.

Soon the steamer hove-to, not far from the admiral's vessel. The smacks came crowding round like bees round a hive, each one lowering a boat when near enough.

And once again was enacted a scene similar in many respects to that which we have described in a previous chapter, with this difference, that the scramble now was partly for the purpose of obtaining empty boxes. Another steamer had taken off most of their fish early that day, and the one just arrived meant to wait for the fish of the next morning.

It chanced that a good many of the rougher men of the fleet came on board that evening, so that Captain Bream, whose recent experiences had led him half to expect that all the North Sea fishermen were amiable lions, had his mind sadly but effectively disabused of that false idea. The steamer's deck soon swarmed with some four hundred of the roughest and most boisterous men he had ever seen, and the air was filled with coarse and profane language, while a tendency to fight was exhibited by several of them.

"They're a rough lot, sir," said the mate as he leant on the rail of the bridge, gazing down on the animated scene, "but they were a rougher lot before the gospel-ship came out to stay among them, and some of the brightest Christians now in the fleet were as bad as the worst you see down there."

"Ay, Jesus came to save the lost, and the worst," said the captain in a low tone—"praise to His name!"

As soon as the trunks had been received, the admiral bore away to windward, and the fleet began to follow and make preparation for the night's fishing; for the fish which were destined so soon to smoke on London tables were at that moment gambolling at the bottom of the sea!

"We must run down to the mission smack, and put you aboard at once, sir," said the mate, "for she follows the admiral—though she does not fish on Saturday nights, so that the hold may be clear of fish and ready for service on Sundays."

Captain Bream was ready.

"They know you are coming, I suppose?"

"Yes, they expect me."

In a few minutes the steamer was close to the mission-ship, and soon after, the powerful arms of its hospitable skipper and mate were extended to help the expected invalid out of the boat which had been sent for him.

"We're makin' things all snug for the night," said the skipper, as he led his guest into the little cabin, "an' when we're done we shall have tea; but if you'd like it sooner—"

"No, no, skipper, I'll wait. Though I'm just come from the shore, you don't take me for an impatient land-lubber, do you? Go, finish your work, and I'll rest a bit. I've been ill, you see, an' can't stand as much as I used to," he added apologetically.

When left alone, Captain Bream's mode of resting himself was to go down on his knees and thank God for having brought him to so congenial a resting-place on the world of waters, and to pray that he might be made use of to His glory while there.

How that prayer was answered we shall see.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

ANOTHER FIGHT AND—VICTORY!

It is interesting to observe the curious, and oftentimes unlikely, ways in which the guilt of man is brought to light, and the truth of that word demonstrated—"Be sure your sin shall find you out."

Although John Gunter's heart was softened at the time of his old skipper's death, it was by no means changed, so that, after a brief space, it became harder than ever, and the man who had been melted—to some extent washed—returned, ere long, with increased devotion to his wallowing in the mire. This made him so disagreeable to his old comrades, that they became anxious to get rid of him, but Joe Davidson, whose disposition was very hopeful, hesitated; and the widow, having a kindly feeling towards the man because he had sailed with her husband, did not wish him to be dismissed.

Thus it came to pass that when Captain Bream joined the Short Blue fleet he was still a member of the crew of the new Evening Star.

The day following that on which the captain arrived was Sunday, and, as usual, the smacks whose skippers had become followers of the Lord Jesus began to draw towards the mission-ship with their Bethel-flags flying. Among them was the new admiral—Joe of the Evening Star. His vessel was pointed out, of course, to the captain as she approached. We need scarcely say that he looked at her with unusual interest, and was glad when her boat was lowered to row part of her crew to the service about to be held in the hold of the gospel-ship.

It was natural that Captain Bream should be much taken with the simple cheery manners of the admiral, as he stepped aboard and shook hands all round. It was equally natural that he should take some interest, also, in John Gunter, for was it not obvious that that worthy was a fine specimen of the gruff, half-savage, raw material which he had gone out there to work upon?

"Why did you not bring Billy, Joe?" asked the skipper of the mission vessel.

"Well, you know, we had to leave some one to look after the smack, an' I left Luke Trevor, as he said he'd prefer to come to evenin' service, an' Billy said he'd like to stay with Luke."

By this time a number of boats had put their rough-clad crews on the deck, and already a fair congregation was mustered. Shaking of hands, salutations, question and reply, were going briskly on all round, with here and there a little mild chaffing, and occasionally a hearty laugh, while now and then the fervent "thank God" and "praise the Lord" revealed the spirits of the speakers.

"You mentioned the name of Billy just now," said Captain Bream, drawing Joe Davidson aside. "Is he a man or a boy?"

"He's a boy, sir, though he don't like to be reminded o' the fact," said Joe with a laugh. "He's the son of our skipper who was drowned—an' a good boy he is, though larky a bit. But that don't do him no harm, bless ye."

"I wonder," returned the captain, "if he is the boy some lady friends of mine are so fond of, who was sent up to London some time ago to—"

"That's him, sir," interrupted Joe; "it was Billy as was sent to Lun'on; by the wish of a Miss Ruth Pont-rap-me, or some such name. I never can remember it rightly, but she's awful fond o' the fisher-folks."

"Ah, I know Miss Ruth Dotropy also," said the captain. "Strange that I should find this Billy that they're all so fond of in the new Evening Star. I must pay your smack a visit soon, Davidson, for I have a particular interest in her."

"I'll be proud to see you aboard her, sir," returned Joe. "Won't you come after service? The calm will last a good while, I think."

"Well, perhaps I may."

The conversation was interrupted here by a general move to the vessel's hold, where the usual arrangements had been made—a table for a pulpit and fish-boxes for seats.

"Do you feel well enough to speak to us to-day, Captain Bream?" asked the skipper of the mission-ship.

"Oh yes, I'll be happy to do so. The trip out has begun to work wonders already," said the captain.

Now, the truth of that proverb, "One man may take a horse to the water, but ten men can't make him drink," is very often illustrated in the course of human affairs. You may even treat a donkey in the same way, and the result will be similar.

Joe Davidson had brought John Gunter to the mission-ship in the earnest hope that he would drink at the gospel fountain, but, after having got him there, Joe found that, so far from drinking, Gunter would not even go down to the services at all. On this occasion he said that he preferred to remain on deck, and smoke his pipe.

Unknown to all the world, save himself, John Gunter was at that time in a peculiarly unhappy state of mind. His condition was outwardly manifested in the form of additional surliness.

"You're like a bear with a sore head," Spivin had said to him when in the boat on the way to the service.

"More like a black-face baboon wid de cholera," said Zulu.

Invulnerable alike to chaff and to earnest advice, Gunter sat on the fore-hatch smoking, while psalms of praise were rising from the hold.

Now, it was the little silver watch which caused all this trouble to Gunter. Bad as the man was, he had never been an absolute thief, until the night on which he had robbed Ruth Dotropy. The horror depicted in her pretty, innocent face when he stopped her had left an impression on his mind which neither recklessness nor drink could remove, and thankfully would he have returned the watch if he had known the young lady's name or residence. Moreover, he was so inexperienced and timid in this new line of life, that he did not know how to turn the watch into cash with safety, and had no place in which to conceal it. On the very day about which we write, seeing the Coper not far off, the unhappy man had thrust the watch into his trousers pocket with the intention of bartering it with the Dutchman for rum, if he should get the chance. Small chance indeed, with Joe Davidson for his skipper! but there is no accounting for the freaks of the guilty.

The watch was now metaphorically burning a hole in Gunter's pocket, and, that pocket being somewhat similar in many respects to the pockets of average schoolboys, Ruth's pretty little watch lay in company with a few coppers, a bit of twine, a broken clasp-knife, two buttons, a short pipe, a crumpled tract of the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen, and a half-finished quid of tobacco.

But although John Gunter would not drink of his own free-will, he could not easily avoid the water of life that came rushing to him up the hatchway and filled his ears. It came to him first, as we have said, in song; and the words of the hymn, "Sinner, list to the loving call," passed not only his outer and inner ear, but dropped into his soul and disturbed him.

Then he got a surprise when Captain Bream's voice resounded through the hold,—there was something so very deep and metallic about it, yet so tender and musical. But the greatest surprise of all came when the captain, without a word of preface or statement as to where his text was to be found, looked his expectant audience earnestly in the face, and said slowly, "Thou shalt not steal."

Poor Captain Bream! nothing was further from his thoughts than the idea that any one listening to him was actually a thief! but he had made up his mind to press home, with the Spirit's blessing, the great truth that the man who refuses to accept salvation in Jesus Christ robs God of the love and honour that are His due; robs his wife and children and fellow-men of the good example and Christian service which he was fitted and intended to exert, and robs himself, so to speak, of Eternal Life.

The captain's arguments had much weight in the hold, but they had no weight on deck. Many of his shafts of reason were permitted to pierce the tough frames of the rugged men before him, and lodge with good influence in tender hearts, but they all fell pointless on the deck above. It was the pure unadulterated Word of God, "without note or comment," that was destined that day to penetrate the iron heart of John Gunter, and sink down into his soul. "Thou shalt not steal!" That was all of the sermon that Gunter heard; the rest fell on deaf ears, for these words continued to burn into his very soul. Influenced by the new and deep feelings that had been aroused in him, he pulled the watch from his pocket with the intention of hurling it into the sea, but the thought that he would still deserve to be called a thief caused him to hesitate.

"Hallo! Gunter, what pretty little thing is that you've got?"

The words were uttered by Dick Herring of the White Cloud, who, being like-minded with John, had remained on deck like him to smoke and lounge.

"You've got no business wi' that," growled Gunter, as he closed his hand on the watch, and thrust it back into his pocket.

"I didn't say I had, mate," retorted Herring, with a puff of contempt, which at the same time emptied his mouth and his spirit.

Herring said no more; but when the service was over, and the men were chatting about the deck, he quietly mentioned what he had seen, and some of the waggish among the crew came up to Gunter and asked him, with significant looks and laughs, what time o' day it was.

At first Gunter replied in his wonted surly manner; but at last, feeling that the best way would be to put a bold face on the matter, he said with an off-hand laugh—

"Herring thinks he's made a wonderful discovery, but surely there's nothing very strange in a man buyin' a little watch for his sweetheart."

"You don't mean to say that you have a sweetheart do you?" said a youth of about seventeen, who had a tendency to be what is styled cheeky.

Gunter turned on him with contempt. "Well, now," he replied, "if I had a smooth baby-face like yours I would not say as I had, but bein' a man, you see, I may ventur' to say that I have."

"Come, Gunter, you're too hard on 'im," cried Spivin; "I don't believe you've bought a watch for her at all; at least if you have, it must be a pewter one."

Thus taunted, Gunter resolved to carry out the bold line of action. "What d'ee call that?" he cried, pulling out the watch and holding it up to view.

Captain Bream chanced to be an amused witness of this little scene, but his expression changed to one of amazement when he beheld the peculiar and unmistakable watch which, years before, he had given to Ruth Dotropy's father. Recovering himself quickly he stepped forward.

"A very pretty little thing," he said, "and looks uncommonly like silver. Let me see it."

He held out his hand, and Gunter gave it to him without the slightest suspicion, of course, that he knew anything about it. "Yes, undoubtedly it is silver, and a very curious style of article too," continued the captain in a low off-hand tone. "You've no objection to my taking it to the cabin to look at it more carefully?"

Of course Gunter had no objection, though a sensation of uneasiness arose within him, especially when Captain Bream asked him to go below with him, and whispered to Joe Davidson in a low tone, as he passed him, to shut the cabin skylight.

No sooner were they below, with the cabin-door shut, than the captain looked steadily in the man's face, and said—

"Gunter, you stole this watch from a young lady in Yarmouth."

An electric shock could not have more effectually stunned the convicted fisherman. He gazed at the captain in speechless surprise. Then his fists clenched, a rush of blood came to his face, and a fierce oath rose to his white lips as he prepared to deny the charge.

"Stop!" said the captain, impressively, and there was nothing of severity or indignation in his voice or look. "Don't commit yourself, Gunter. See, I place the watch on this table. If you bought it to give to your sweetheart, take it up. If you stole it from a pretty young lady in one of the rows of Yarmouth some months ago, and would now wish me to restore it to her—for I know her and the watch well—let it lie."

Gunter looked at the captain, then at the watch, and hesitated. Then his head drooped, and in a low voice he said—

"I am guilty, sir."

Without a word more, Captain Bream laid his hand on the poor man's shoulder and pressed it. Gunter knew well what was meant. He went down on his knees. The captain kneeled beside him, and in a deep, intensely earnest voice, claimed forgiveness of the sin that had been confessed, and prayed that the sinner's soul might be there and then cleansed in the precious blood of Jesus.

John Gunter was completely broken down; tears rolled over his cheeks, and it required all his great physical strength to enable him to keep down the sobs that well-nigh choked him.

Fishermen of the North Sea are tough. Their eyes are not easily made to swell or look red by salt water, whether it come from the ocean without or the mightier ocean within. When Gunter had risen from his knees and wiped his eyes with the end of a comforter, which had probably been worked under the superintendence of Ruth herself; there were no signs of emotion left—only a subdued look in his weatherworn face.

"I give myself up, sir," he said, "to suffer what punishment is due."

"No punishment is due, my man. Jesus has borne all the punishment due to you and me. In regard to man, you have restored that which you took away, and well do I know that the young lady—like her Master—forgives freely. I will return the watch to her. You can go back to your comrades—nobody shall ever hear more about this. If they chaff you, or question you, just say nothing, and smile at them."

"But—but, sir," said Gunter, moving uneasily.

"I ain't used to smilin'. I—I've bin so used to look gruff that—"

"Look gruff, then, my man," interrupted the captain, himself unable to repress a smile. "If you're not gruff in your heart, it won't matter much what you look like. Just look gruff, an' keep your mouth shut, and they'll soon let you alone."

Acting on this advice, John Gunter returned to his mates looking gruffer, if possible, and more taciturn than ever, but radically changed, from that hour, in soul and spirit.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE CLIMAX REACHED AT LAST.

As the calm weather continued in the afternoon, Joe Davidson tried to persuade Captain Bream to pay the Evening Star a visit, but the latter felt that the excitement and exertion of preaching to such earnest and thirsting men had been more severe than he had expected. He therefore excused himself, saying that he would lie down in his bunk for a short time, so as to be ready for the evening service.

It was arranged that the skipper of the mission smack should conduct that service, and he was to call the captain when they were ready to begin. When the time came, however, it was found that the exhausted invalid was so sound asleep that they did not like to disturb him.

But although Captain Bream was a heavy sleeper and addicted to sonorous snoring, there were some things in nature through which even he could not slumber; and one of these things proved to be a hymn as sung by the fishermen of the North Sea!

When, therefore, the Lifeboat hymn burst forth in tones that no cathedral organ ever equalled, and shook the timbers of the mission-ship from stem to stern, the captain turned round, yawned, and opened his eyes wide, and when the singers came to—

"Leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull for the shore,"

he leaped out of his bunk with tremendous energy.

Pulling his garments into order, running his fingers through his hair, and trying to look as if he had not been asleep, he slipped quietly into the hold and sat down on a box behind the speaker, where he could see the earnest faces of the rugged congregation brought into strong relief by the light that streamed down the open hatchway.

What the preacher said, or what his subject was, Captain Bream never knew, for, before he could bring his mind to bear on it, his eyes fell on an object which seemed to stop the very pulsations of his heart, while his face grew pale. Fortunately he was himself in the deep shadow of the deck, and could not be easily observed.