The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1887-11-19 00:00:00

AFTER TEE FIRE.

Alone, alone, all, all alone—
Alone on a wide, wide sea.'

—COLERIDGE.
WnEN Cuthbert Ingram woke up to the fright and
tumult on board th 3 Asphodel, the knowledge came
to him—as such knowledge does come in moments of
peril—that the good ship was doomed. It was to be
a fight for life, and for nothing else, for th 3 fire was
raging and beginning to light up the sea and sky
before the terrified passengers and excited crew were
awake to a sense of their peril.
Some inflammable substance in the bold had
apparently burst into fire without any outward agency,
and the mischief was not discovered until it was too
late to do anything but flee, and leave the ill-fated
ship to her miserable ending. Very calmly the captain
gave his orders; he had as much at stake as any man
on board—a loving, helpless wife and pretty children
waiting for him at home, and all that goes to make a
man's life happy gathered together in his home. I3ut
he must forget them now, and do his duty to the
helpless folks that were gathered round him on the
deck. He stayed the wild beating at his heart, and
choked down the rising sobs that would have thickened
his voice and interfered with his orders, and issued
his commands in a clear, calm tone, that went farther
than anything else could have done in the wild terror
of the hour, to give strength and consolation to the,
Women that were facing death in so fearful a fashion
The wind was rising and howled over the angi3
waves with a sullen sound that boded ill for the safety
of the boats that were hastily but safely prepared,
and one by one the helpless creatures were lowered to
momentary safety as the boats moved away from the
burning ship. Cuthbert stood by the captain's side,
pale and still, through all the bitter time; it seena,cl
like many hours, though in reality only a very short
time elapsed between the first alarm and the final
catastrophe.
At last the last boat-load of women and children
was got away, and only a few remained, the captain
and one or two of his men and Cuthbert, who had
resolutely refused to leave as long as he could be of
any use, and his clear head and strong arms had done
good service.
There will be room for all,' he said; ' I will go with
you.'
He knew that the captain would not leave till the
last. He knew what he was risking; but he could not
take the place of any weaker creature, or desert those
who were left behind, as long as there was any chance
at all of doing any good where he was.
'Plenty of room, thank God!' the captain said, as
the last boat was loosened from its supports and
slowly and carefully lowered into the raging water;
'and not a moment too soon; there's a dirty night
coming on.'
He spoke as quietly aq though he was in his own
drawing-room at home, though his ship was blazing
under his feet, and his only chance of life was the tiny
cockleshell gliding down to the water. With
reverence, too, his 'Thank God !' came from his heart;
and it was hardly uttered before there was a wild cry
of terror and heart-agony from the men standing by.
The boat had been caught by a wave that made the
teaming ship start and shiver from end to end, and
dashed against her side broken and useless.
The two men looked at each other in the red glare
that was all round them now, and clasped each other's
hands.

It is good bye,' the captain said. No—no. Bach
—back !' he shouted, and his voice rang out over the
roar of the fire as one of the boats was seen trying in
vain to put back and get nearer. 'Too late—too
late!'

There was a moment of agony that seemed a life-
time, and then a rear and a flash, and the bl37ing
fragments of the once splendid Asphodel went hither
and thither on the wind and waves— a fiery memorial
of the men who had stood only a moment before on
the deck waiting for the inevitable end. There was
a hiss and a plunge, and she sank, and the boats vci‘h
their helpless freights were on the wide sea in the
darkness, tossing at the mercy of the angry way( s.
Only one boat survived the storm that swept the
ocean that night ; only a poor handful of men and
three half-dead women lived to tell the taie of that
awful burning, They were gaunt skeletons, just in
time to save what life was left in them, and there
was mourning all over the country, for the Asphodel
had her full complement of passengers and a fine
crew, hailing from all parts of the country. The
captain's pretty wife was a widow now, and her
children fatherless; and a home broken up by that
night's mischief, and Cuthbert Ingram's uncle
sorrowed for the lad he had searcely appreciated when
he was at home, and in his old age he was very lonely
now that he was gone.

There's been mischief somewhere;' sad the
captain of the tiny schooner Mary Jane, from
Falmouth to Cadiz, and then to the Mediterranean, or
anywhere so she could get a cargo, put la's glass to
his eye and survsyed sundry pleces of floating
wreckage that went by him as if there were no story
for the sea to tell.

The morning was lovely, and the sun shone on the
blue water as if there had never been such a thing as
the storm of the night before, through which the
Mary Jane had scudded with less danger than many
a finer ship. She was of little consequence in the
mercantile world, and she was almost too small for
the wind and waves to take much notice of. Her
captain and principal owner was wont to declare that
he feared nothing so long as he had plenty of room;
and it seemed, in the blackness of the past night, as
if she had had the whole ocean to herself.
Her crew of four had righled their ropes and spars,
and swabbed her decks, and made things straight and
trim, and there was but little doing except idly
gazing out over the blue water, when the quick eyes
of John Tregellis caught sight of the drifting spars and
tangled ropes. Out went the schooner's little boat—
an old-fashioned tub of a thing, that would not have
lived a moment in the sea of the night before—and
the men caught and examined the wreckage.
A fire,' they reported; but no trace of, the ship's
name or clue to where she belonged, or where she was
going; the mischief was quite recent, they could tell
that, and they knew, from one of the pieces that they
picked up, that the ship, whatever she was, was a
large one, and must have burned to the water's
edge.
She's gone clean,' one of the men said; sunk, most
likely, with all hands.'
'Keep a good look out,' the captain said; 'we may
not have seen the last of her.' He wanted to make
the most of the fair wind that was taking him south-
ward on its welcome wings. They had encountered
contrary breezes till now, and this one had sprung up
since the storm. But he loitered on his course, in
the hope of succouring some lost creature, or finding
out for friends at home the name and destination of
the lost ship. Those who knew him well knew that
one of the perils of his sea-going life had been a fire
at sea; he had been one of a little band of survivors
of a great fire, and had been saved at the last moment.
The memory of that awful time had made him specially
tender-hearted to sufferers from the same cause, and
his men knew it; and if they laughed at him in secret
they obeyed his behests, and went after mare's nests
on their various voyages without much grumbling.
Many a time had the boat of the Mary Jane gone
after a block of wood or a lump of floating sea-weed,
and impecunious sailors had only to tell a tale of fire
and peril to be helped and employed by the master of
the Mary Jane. He was very often taken in; but a
good masy deeds of help and charity went to his
account in the Recording Angel's book, cnd his men,
if they thought him odd, stayed with him, and had
come to think with him and act for him without
demur.
So the good look-out was kept, and the little ship
lingered on her course till a good many hours had
passed by, and there seemed nothing on the wide sea
but themselves, when suddenly the captain, who had
been looking out, telescope in hand, ordered the boat
to be lowered again—what he saw seemed only a
speck—a bit more weed, most likely; the storm had
detached a great deal from somewhere, and it was
floating about in tangled lumps.
It is a boat,' be said to one of them who suggested
weed; 'I can make out that much.'
A boat, sure enough, when they got near enough
to see it—or part of one—broken and battered, but
floating, and clinging to it something that looked
hardly human in its helplessness and misery. A man,
scorched and bruised, with what clothing he had on
torn and frayed, where it was not burnt. They
thought him dead, for he was stiff and rigid, and they
could not unclasp the hands that clung to the wreck
of the drifting boat. They were going to leave him
—they could do nothing—when one of their number
declared;that the eyes had opened and shut again. The
man was alive; there was no doubt of that, and at
another touch he moved slightly. It was at great risk
of upsetting their own boat that they got him aboard,
but they did it at last, and rowed back to the Mary
Jane with the reward of their efforts lying like a
corpse in the bottom of their little craft.
Laid on the deck of the schooner, it was almost
impossible to tell that he lived. But after a time he
came round so far that they could see that he breathed,
and now and then opened his eyes. Very tenderly
John Tregellis and his crew succoured this ocean
waif. They cared for him as women would have
done, and gave him of their best. .
'I doubt he'll die,' the captain said on the second
morning. They were nearing Cadiz, for which
port he had a cargo. We must get a doctor, or take
him to the hospital.'
They had nothing to tell what countryman he was,
or what his ship had been. He did not wear sailor's
clothes—what he had on was a gentleman's attire, or
had been—and his hands showed no traces of work.
John Tregells had no room for him, or he would have
taken him on with him. The berths Were too small
for a sick man, and it seemed that he would lie in one
of them till he died. The captain of the Mary Jane
was well known in port, and he found no difficulty in
getting his insensible guest carried to the hospital.
There would be shelter for him there, and attention, if
anything could be done for him—and more than that,
an English sailor for company for him, if indeed he
was an Englishman.
A big burly fellow, with an English tongue in his
Pead and many oaths at the point of it,was in the bed

next to wbere lay the unconscious man, and he swore
roundly that he would, as he expressed it,' see him to
rights ' if ever he c-inze to himself.
The Mary Jane was a good way off on her voyage to
the Mediterranean ports when consciousness came
back to the man in the hospital bed. The big sailor,
who had met with a severe accident which had lamed
him, was convalescent and sitting up by the fire when
an English voice fell on his ear amid the babble of the
tongues of all nations that surrounded him.
Helen,' it said. Helen, my darling, where aze
you?'
He's English,' he said to himself with a chuckle.
'Thought he was. Who's Helen, I wonder?'
He hobbled painfully to the side of the bed, and
looked at its occupant. The eyes were opea, and the
hands were groping about the counterpane as if in
search of something.
What is it mate?' he asked.

'The paper, was the reply. The paper that I read
it in—that she was free—free to marry me. My own
Helen!'
There's a woman at the bottom of his troubles,'
the sailor said sententiously. 'He's off his head yet,
and no wonder, if that sort of thing is troubling him.
I believe that a woman is at the bottom of every
trouble that ever happened to a man, that I do.'
His own troubles with the sex had been great. He
had a plurality of wives, and had more than once come
to grief amongst them, and he looked at the still
insensible patient, curiously -waiting for further revela-
tions. None came. The attendants gave the man
some food, and he fell asleep for the rst time since
his admission without groaning and starting.
'He'll do now,' the sailor said to himself, as be went
back to his own bed. 'l've seen a many of 'ern, and
when they go off quiet like that the worst's generally
over.'

_
It was over in this case. Awaking in the middle of
the night, Ben Dickson, as the sailor was called, was
conscious that his neighbour was looking at him with
a pair of very bright, wide-open eyes, with much
wonder in them.

'Hullo, mate,' he said softly. 'Better, eh?'
Yes. Quite well,' was the slow reply. Who are
you?'
Who are you, for that matter?' Ben replied. Let
us hear that first, mate.'
But that was more than-could be told. The helpless
creature had no idea of who he was, or where he
came from. He was content to lie and stare at the
ceiling, and the bright pictures of saints and holy
men with which the ministering sisters of a neighbour-
ing convent adorned the walls—and eat what was
put into his mouth. His mind was a blank at present,
and it was a chance if ever it was anything else.
The consciousness came at last. He was much
bett ,r and gaining strength daily when there came to
Ben Dickson an English paper from some old com-
panion in the port. Ben was no great reader. His usual
method was to read aloud laboriously, and so get at the
sense of what he wanted. The paper contained the
report of the few survivors of the Asphodel, and the
account interested Ben mightily.
The Asphodel was a he read, when he was
itartled by a clutch on his arm that made him drop
the paper, and there was his companion sitting up
from the pillows and staring at him with bewildered
Ives. _

- 'The Asphodel!' he gasped. 'Say that again. Where
as it? What is it?'

It ain't anything now,' Ben -replied. It was a
and a big one. She was burned.
'Burnt? Yes. The Asphodel,' came in gasps from
the man's white lips. I recollect now. I went up
up with her, and then down, down—and, and '
Be burst into feeble tears, and then fell into a fit of
Incoherent mutterings and ravings that culminated in
a sharp attack of fever. The doctors declared that
they had more hope of his recovery now. There
was something to go upon; there was some idea of
what had brought him to his sad plight, and they
were right. In three days more the patient was lying
back upon his pillows as weak as an infant, but
sensible and collected; able to talk of what had befallen
him, and to speculate about the time he would
have to lie there before he could get away.
No, I will not communicate with my friends,' he
sad to the doctor who attended him. They have left
off thinking about me by this time, I daresay, and
somethieg might happen before I got home after all.
The name you have called me by in this place will do
very well till I can go home safe and sound.'
Antoine Mulet,' was written over the head of his
bed. The last patient had been a Frenchman of that
name, and he had been called either that or No. 25 all
the time he had been in the hospital.
Time enough to take back my own name when I am
able to go to the consul,' he said to himself. I shall
have to go home a pauper after ell.'
He had had a little money in a belt when the fire
broke out. Belt and money and everything had
vanished, and he was as destitute as any beggar that
ever solicited alms. But as health and strength came
back to him he was happy.
She will welcome me, he thought. If she does
not, what does anything signify? Did you speak to
me, sir?'
Yes, No. 25, I did.'
A man in a sailor's dress, and with a pleasant
manner, though rough, had come into the ward
and was looking at him kindly and with much
satisfaction.

You're looking better than when I saw you last,'
he said. I rather expected to find your grave, if
the doctors hadn't tab en you for a specimen. I'm
right glad that we fished you out of the water.'
You! Are you the man? Ah !if you knew how I
have pray, d to see ycu, to
Well, I'm not much to look at, now you do see me.
There—there—don't do that,' as Cuthbert Ingram
buried his face in his hands to hide the tears that would
come in his weakness and gratitude. I don't think
I could have let a dog drown for want of a tittle he'p ;
and we knew there had been a wreck-. I've been
thinking a deal about you since I went away fr,-)m
here. I should have had to advertise for your friends,
you know, if you had been dead. I've got some
property of yours.'
Property I What property? Everything belonging
to me went down in the Asphodel.'
No, it didn't; and before Cuthbert could realise
what was happening the belt was put into his hand,
with the little leather bag that held the money
1114%

CHAPTER XLVI.
HOMEWARD BOUND.

Ws all right,' Mr. Tregellis said, smiling at the as-
tonished look of the man he had rescued from death.
At least it is just as we took it from your body. I
thought it would come to your heirs and assignees, as
the lawyers say. I never imagined I should give it
back to you.'
I never expected to see it,' Cuthbert replied, press-
ing that which the sailor held out to him warm'y ; '
thought the sea had stolen it, with everything else I
possessed.'
It was pretty securely fastened on,' the captain
said. It would have stood a great deal of knocking
about. I am thankful you fell into our hands, Mr.--
By the way, I don't know your name. I know that is
not it, because it was there when you came. I asked
for you and they called you No. 25. I prefer a man
with a name myself.'
So do I, I have a name; it is Cuthbert Ingram,
you must tell me where I can meet you in England.
My friends will thank you better than I can for what
you have done.'
'There's nothing to thank me for. Any man would
have dono the same. I hail from Falmouth, but I air.
pretty much all over the kingdom when I am at
home; lam a rough fellow with no tio3, they all lie
under the pod do my darling!, and my ship's my Wife
and family and all now.
And what is your ship?' Cuthbert asked. And
John Tregellis laughed—a good hearty laugh that made
the ward ring again, and wan faces in the beds smile
in sympathy with the hilarity they could not under-
sand.
'I beg your pardon,' he said. 'lt seemed so comical
that you should not know the ship that you came here
in. You liy aboard her long enough, but of course
you don't know, how should you? You didn't know
you were alive when we brought you here.'
so, indeed; I have no recollection of anything
after that awful whirl skywards.'
You were clinging to a broken boat, as if you
knew that was all that was between you and death;
it wouldn't have been between you much longer. My
ship's the Mary Jane, of Falmouth, and I am Cap'ain
John Tregellis, of the same place. I was born there,
and I hope to lie there when I am dead, if the sea does
not claim me. lam a rough fellow, but I like to do
all I can for my fellow creatures. Shall I take you
home, Mr. Ingram?'
In the Mary Jane?'
No. For once lam apart from my mistress. She
is at Malaga for some repairs: sprung a leak she did
last week, the first time she ever served me so. And
I am going to take a ship home for some owners I
know. Her captain is disabled; fell down the hatch-
way and broke himself somewhere, and her mate
likes his glass too well to please his employers; not
but what he's a good sailor too, but I happened to be
at hand, and so I am going to run the Ciaristabel over
to Southampton, and if you would be glad to get
home, you have only to say the word,
rameaidA
the
blo'oGd/madoutno getingt htohoimset,h' Cuinchthebaerst Ingram
delight
prospect. I cannot tell you what the news that I
can do so is to me. If you will take me I can pay
for my passage.'
qu'ieNtloyt. in,
ythoue
aCrhermisytapbreol,p'
property my
my guest. I liked
Tregellis said,
the look of you when we picked you out of the sea
yonder, and I like you still better now that the doctors
have patched you together a bit. Let me do this
much for you; It will be a pleasant memory for me
when you have forgotten it, maybe.'
'Such a contingency is impossible. There are some
things that a man can never forget.'

'Then you will come with me-?'
'With pleasure; and repay the kindness sometime
and somehow, never fear. You have been a good
Samaritan, Captain Tregellis—if you had passed by
on the other side—?'
'You would have been feeding the fishes, I reckon,'
the sailor said. That's settled, then; you come with
me I'll come for you in a couple of hours; and you
shall have the best berth in the Christabel. She's
something different from the Mary Jane for accomo-
dation, I can tell you, though I would rather have my
own little tub than the finest boat that ever crossed
the water. You needn't mind about clothes,' he
added, as he saw Cuthbert glance at his nondescript
garments wit), a Ndder rscollection that he had not

an article of clothing he could call his own:
make that all right. I've got some shore going things
aboard, and I can rig you out.'
You needn't do that, Captain Tregellis. I can
manage to get what I want, I daresay,' Cuthbert said,
with a grateful smile. I suppose there are shops
here that will sell me something to cover me. I could
not very well go to sea in this costume. It is artistic,
I daresay, according to the notions of the hospital
authorities; but it is hardly sufficient for a voyage.'
They both laughed at the thought; the queer shaped
bedgown and loose trousers, and the enveloping night.
cap that seemed to be the most important part of the
general get-up, from the fuss that was made if it was
laid aside for a moment, were scarcely the proper rig-
out for a voyage, however short.
'Well, no ; I guess it isn't quite the thing,' the sailor
said. Don't bother about any shops, Mr. Ingram;
you would not find clothes you would like in Cadiz,
and you may have other use for your money. Let me
set you up till you get home; we are about of a height
and build, and besides, I want you to come out of
this hole at once, you are well enough, eh?'
I am quite well,' Cuthbert replied, 'a little unsteady
on my legs yet, and my head is buzzy, but—'
But you will be very well when once you are on
board ship. There's nothing like sea air for setting a
man up; I'll see about it at once.'
It was like a dream to Cuthbert when he was gone,
and he was half inclined to fancy it had been one; he
had been pondering over his difficulties, and wonder-
ing how he should get at the English consul, or any
captain who happened to be in the harbour, and here
was one sent right down from the skies, as it seemed,
to help him. In the course of two hours the captain
appeared again with a bundle of clothes, and a permit
from the hospital authorities for Cuthbert to leave the
place at once—a matter which had been much more
difficult to arrange than the clothing department. The
doctors had declared that the English senor was not
cured, and that it would reflect on their management
If he were allowed to go yet. But the sailor's
eloquence, or his purse—he never revealed which--
had carried the day, and Cuthbert was free to go.
There, now, you look something like,' Captain
Tregellis said, when at length he was arrayed in the
garments that had been brought. That confounded
scar was enough to make any man look as if he was
on his deathbed. Now for a good dinner. Oh, I have
interviewed the doctors about your diet, and you
shan't be starved; and then we'll get aboard the
Christabel.'
There was a conveyance waiting at the hospital
gate, and Cuthbert bade adieu to his companions of
the ward, and turned his back on the hospital with
what delight only a man who has faced death
In such a place can understand. The Christabel was
a fine ship, with a large cabin, and the berth in which
her passenger laid down to rest that night seemed like
a little palace after the hard hospital bed with its
dingy surroundings.
Before they had been two days at sea Captain
Tregellis and his guest knew each other thoroughly,
and something of the histories of each. Looking
down into the water, and gossiping idly on the second
morning, the captain said suddenly, I hope you will
find her all right, Mr. Ingram.'
Find who?' Cuthbert replied with a conscious flush
rising to the very roots of his hair.'

'The lady.' _
'What lady?'
4 Ah, you know best : the one whose name was on
your lips when the outside world was lost to you.
You spoke but three words while you were with us
in the Mary Jane, a woman's name, and "my
darling."
'And the name was-?'

Helen.'
Aye, Helen,' the young man said. I did not
know; I was not conscious.'
No, your outside senses were not, but your heart
was. Do you know that one little word made me
determined, if you could be brought back to life you
should be. I guessed you were coming home from
somewhere to a woman—your wife, perhaps.'

6No ; I have no wife.' -
'Your sweetheart, then.'

Not that I know of. To a woman whom I love
with all my heart, better than life itself; and I think
she loves me, too, but there has been an obstacle.
She was engaged to another man, by her father's
wish, and she would have done her duty,
poor darling. I was in China. I was best away,
and-'

You went for her sake. You were brave enough
to do it
It was the only thing to do. In time she would
forget me, and be happy with the man her parents
had chosen for her; and I should learn to be contented
with my lot, and pray for her happiness and her
husband's.'
'Brave lad, brave lad,' John Tregellis said. There
are not many men who would have done as much.'
I hope there are.'
No. Most men would have hung about and made
her and themselves miserable—worn out their lives in
longing. But you are going back?'
Yes, she was free—free by a horrible accident.
The poor young fellow was killed—murdered. I read
it in the paper, and in a few hours I was on my road
home. Poor Frank Hatharleigh ! He did not deserve
so wretched a fate.' _ _

Hatherleigh ! Are you speaking of the Milford
murder?'
Yes.'
'That's odd.'
'Why?'
Because I happened to be in court on the day
of the trial, and saw the man they had suspected. The
alibi was proved as clear as daylight. But I remember
one thing that came outin the evidence. Miss Ramsay,
you see I remember her name, had broken with the
young man before the murder. There was some hint
that it might have had to do with their engagement;
and there was a good deal of surprise when it was
shown very plainly that they had parted in a friendly
fashion before the death of the young gentleman.'
Before his death!' Cuthbert Ingram murmured to
himself. 'Can it be possible! Was it for my sake?
Did she tell him? Oh, Helen, my darling, are you
grieving for me now? Have you come to think me
dead? Is it true? Is it not all a dream. Ah ! Heaven,
if it is a dream, that I may never awake!'
I didn't think that was the Helen, when I heard
you mutter the name,' the Captain said, with a smile.
I remember now the young lady's name was Helen.
I wish you luck with all my heart. The silver lining
of the cloud has turned up, and you'll soon see the
whole brightness of it.'
God grant I may. Tell me, Captain, why did My
mutterings make you the more anxious to bring me
home? Were you curious to see the denouP4nent of the
story?'
'No.'
What then?'

'Old memories, my boy.'
Ah, forgive me. I should not have isked. Ishould
have been content to be thankful for your kindness,
and ask no questions.'
'There's nothing to forgive. It was just this—
when I heard you say that lady's name, and knew that
your soul was with her, though' your body lay in-
sensible in my berth in the Mary Jane—for it was so,
let the doctors say what they like—it me.de me think
of myself. Just so was I picked up at sea after a
fire; and just so was I going home to the only woman
I ever loved—the only one I ever shall love, as long
as life shall last me.' _ _ _

He whistled vehemently for a minute. Cuthbert
Ingram saw him draw his arm roughly across his
eyes, as if ashamed of the emotion that prompted the
action.
Don't speak of it,' he said. Don't think of it.'
'Don't think of it if he repeated, with a mournful
smile. 'I am always thinking of it: It is never
absent from my thoughts. I was not a very young
man. Perhaps that made it all the harder for me.
When a man's heart is not touched till it is pretty
tough and weather-beaten, it's all the worse when the
arrow does stick. It sticks hard. I was over thirty
when I first saw my Lucy, and she was a dainty little
thing, eighteen or thereabouts. I had a little sister
about the same age, and they were at school
together. My sister and myself were the
only ones left out of a large and happy family. When
I went to sea first, a lad, full of wild ambition about
making a fortune, and helping my father to keep
a home for the younger ones, there was a house full of
children, and the happiest, brightest mother that ever
man had at the head of them. My father was a hale,
hearty man, proud of us all, and of me especially, the
child of his early married life. Well, after one voyage
—it was a very long one, some eight months and more
and I had very little news from home when I was
away, we were shifting so constantly—l came home
to find an almost empty house.'
Had they gone away?'
'Yes; to their graves, most of them. There had
been a fever there, a fierce, burning fever, that
seemed to defy the doctors, and carry off just whom
it fancied. My father had taken it, and when he
rose from his sick bed to head his household once
more, he had but one child left, except the on that
was far away on the sea. They lay in the churchyard,
under the bik yew; and grief and fatigue had very
nearly sent my mother to her place beside them.'
And your sister was left,' Cuthbert said. No one
but her?'

, Only us two;' and from that time we came to be

therenbanro
otdt lhai vel
wwre
aa may
aze rrf ste
came to tal
everything to each other. My father and mother did
Isna :nt
woyoohnkeyenecl after
hr
sokhl :lash
home
was
et f r
ar
omsmi
Sophiews emer lay b
voyages,
but
eoouoykt time,aeghdee
sr, and
bigwafter,e
spent the time together as far as we could. She had
a schoolfellow that, next to me, she loved with all
her heart, and I saw her, and loved her. That little
word tells all there is to be told. If I talked for a
week, I couldn't tell you how much I loved her, nor
what castles in the air I built for us three; for I had
no idea of forsaking Sophie. Lucy's father was a
bard, proud old man; but he did not make much ob-
jection to the match. He would have liked her to
marry money, he said. But I was not badly off. I
had the old home, and money in the bank, and a good
berth; and he gave me his girl, grudgingly. I could
see that. But he did give her to me. She was to be
my wife, and I parted from her when I went on that
fatal voyage, as happy a man as ever stepped aboard
of a good ship.
And you met the same fate as I did?'
Yes. said. ' I know
'Don't speak of it,' Cuthbert Ingrain
what you must fee. l I don't know the time will
come when I shall be able to talk of my Own ex-
periences in that fire.'
I can talk of that,' the sailor said. I would have

gone through it a thousand times, rather than *hat
came afterwards. The "Mother Carey "—an unlucky
name it was for a ship, and she was launched on a
Friday, too—was burned off the coast of Africa, close
to Zanzibar ; and it wasn't white men that picked me
up after the ship had gone to pieces in fiery cinders.
It was natives ; and I never thought to see my own
country again when I came to myself amongst them,
I must have been mad for many months; for I had
been away a year before I managed to get back to
England. And then —'
Ah ! you are striving to put me on my guard
against being too hopeful,' Cuthbert said, quietly.
• Sometimes I feel as if I did not hope at
all—as if something would have happened to sweep
away all my happiness. I dare not hope. I could not
bear the despair of a disappointment.'
I had no such thought.' the other replied. 'I was
only telling you my story. There wasn't much to tell,
after all. I came home, thinking to find home, friends,
love and happiness. What I found, when I did get
there, was a green grave in the churchyard—all that
was left me of my sister—and a wedding party walk.
hag past it, out of the old church where I had pictured
myself standing at the altar with Lucy.'
She was not dead, then?' _

No. Sophie was dead; and Lucy, my Lucy, was
the bride that had just made her vows. The sea and
the fire had spared me for this, and I had come home
to spoil her life and make her a heart-broken
woman.'
'Was she forced into it?'

Yes and no. She had given me up, as everyone else
had, and her father had fallen into difficulties. She
was marrying, really, to save him. lam thankful to
know that her husband was kind to her, and did not
visit on her innocent head the wrong I had done her
by coming back. I saw her once, only once, and held
her to my heart and kissed her. I think I should have
done it if a hundred husbands had been looking on;
and then I went away. I sold the old place; it WAS
hateful to me ever after. And I have been a rover
ever since. Everything has prospered with me. Money
makes money in my hands, and some day or other it
may help to prevent some innocent girl being given
away for the want of it. The very next time I went
to what had been my home, I stood by Lucy's grave.
She had loved me to the last, and had died of the
struggle between her love and her duty. Her husband
is a prosperous man, with another wife, and his house
full of big, healthy children now. And people speak
of my girl as a puny, helpless creature, who could
never have lived. I know better. I know what she
died of. They don't. The wind's freshening, Mr.
Ingram. We shall be in the Bay in the morning, and
in England before we know where we are. And then,
God speed you to your sweetheart, and give you better
Luck than fell to my share.'
t a

(To be continued.)