aware of my confusion, and meant to help me out of the scrape; he said,— "I am not a sailor nor an American madam," again added doubtfully, "but I feel the justice of your remarks. Very few of us can claim equality with one of your sex and character, it is so much above us." "Here is your book," I interrupted hastily. "There was no inequality thought of but that of station-a trifling one, which I only wished to have admitted, because it makes it easier for me to offer you my assistance." I laid the book on his counterpane, intending to withdraw, feeling thoroughly worsted and puzzled as to whom and what this man might be; but the swelled leaves fell open, and I saw that it was a Greek Testament. Quite involuntarily a slight expression of surprise escaped me, and, relieved at anything which changed the subject, I said,— "This is a Greek book; it is yours?" 66 "Does that surprise you?" he asked. Very much indeed: I believed you were one of the sailors." I saw that I had made myself ridiculous, but that he was indulgent towards my youth. He, however, did not refrain from laughing, and I laughed too; but, though it was at myself, I was relieved at the turn things had taken. We both became grave again suddenly; he, probably, from politeness; I, because I remembered that, after all, he was a perfect stranger to me. In grasping the book, he had forgotten the blistered hand, and now dropped it hastily; upon which I took it up and said, "You cannot hold this Testament? I shall be happy to read some chapters for you." His eyes opened wider as he lay, and he looked very much surprised; but he said not a word. "Where shall I read ?" I inquired. He asked for a chapter in Hebrews; and I read it and the two following ones. I should have stopped sooner, but for the knowledge that, if I looked up, I must encounter his eyes. The task was a pleasant one too : had not read Greek aloud for some time, and the effect of it, and that time and that place, was strange, even to myself. The last time I had read it was with my dear old master at school; now I was my own mistress-it was even my turn to minister. It was a daring thing to read Greek to a man and a scholar, and I had done it of my own accord in order to escape from the awkwardness of further conversation, or of a precipitate retreat. I felt all this strongly at first; but, as the reading advanced, the wonderful interest of the subject made me forget myself, and as I read more seriously, my listener became more and more still. one The third chapter, which was the tenth of Hebrews, came to an end at last; and as it was finished, the first verse I had read recurred to my thoughts, and seemed to echo in my ears- -Now of the things which we have spoken this is the sum." This! what was this? Why, that we had such a High Priest as we needed whose sacrfice had been accepted? What then? We must "hold fast this faith," and be thankful. It seemed to me, as I sat there silently, that I did hold it fast — I did believe that Christ had saved this lost world and me; but then what had followed? My eyes glanced on at the next chapter: the result described there had not followed. It was a chapter which often disturbed me. "By faith," it said, "Abel offered a more excellent sacrifice. By faith Noah prepared an ark. By faith Abraham, when he was tried, offered up Isaac; and he that had received the promises offered up his only begotten son.' " Wonderful truths these. Where was my sacrifice? Was it ready when it should be called for? If it was not ready as a proof of my faith, how could I hope that I possessed any? To believe that if God called on me to make a sacrifice I could not do it, was, as I knew, in itself, a proof of this want of faith in Him; for I had read expressly that faith is the gift of God; why did I not believe, then, that He would give it me, and make me able to receive it, especially as He is a God who, when asked, giveth liberally, and upbraideth not? It is a remarkable thing, and I have noticed it too often to think I can have been deceived, that moods of mind, and sometimes even thoughts, will occasionally pass from one person to another, while both are silent, almost as distinctly as they can be conveyed by words. So that day, as my thoughts went in and in, searching for the faith they hardly dared to find, my eyes at last encountered those of my companion: he was quite as much absorbed as myself, and seemed to rouse himself with difficulty, and said very slowly,— "Thank you when a man has just escaped from what seemed inevitable The death, those chapters take a more solemning is so little worth while, even here, as meaning for him. There was something being religious by halves. It's not worth so real in Paul's religion; he was not while looking out for heaven on the whole, afraid to say, 'If these things are so, what and yet going as near the edge of hell as manner of persons ought we to be?"" we dare, and as we can find footing. "I should have thought the more diffi- What we want is a heedless daring and a cult thing to say was, What manner of wise improvidence the other way. things are we to do?" right inan to follow any cause, let it be "That was included in a mind like his. what it will, is he who loves it well enough The doing is an inevitable result of the to fling to it everything he has in the being. And yet," he went on, touching world, and then think that not enough, very nearly on my thought, "the particu- and so fling himself after it. This last lar line that should be taken up, the par- item often weighs down the scales held in ticular sacrifice to be made, is not always heaven, and the man gets what he gave a problem easily solved. The more free a himself for. God concludes the bargain, man is to do as he chooses, the more diffi- and accepts the pay. These things are reculty in offering the sacrifice that God de-flections of the great sacrifice" Lo, I mands, and not one of his own inventing. come." And the need for self-sacrifice is But some people have a way of thinking so completely the law of the world, that it that what they are about must be pleas-is not merely in religious matters that we ing to God, if only it is unpleasant enough must give all, or get nothing. If we want to themselves. And then," he continued, to do any great good to our fellow-crea"if we do give up a few years or a few tures, though it be solely a temporal good, pounds, how mean we are about it! Some it is just the same. Give yourself and all of us, in our prayers, can even ask God you have, and most likely you will get it; to enable us to do yet more, flaunting our give half, and you get nothing worth mencharity, as it were, in the face of our tioning." Maker. I have done it myself," he added, slowly, and as if the remembrance of it astonished him." "Oh, but St. Peter was beforehand with us there," I answered. "I have often thought how mean it was in him to remind our Lord that he had left all, and to ask what he was to have in return for this great act." "When all he had to forsake," said my patient, was his share in a rotten old tub of a fishing-boat, and those nets that he had not finished mending. I should not wonder if, on the whole, he was glad when he reflected that he had not mended all the holes. He was content to give them up; but, as he was not to use them again, it was not such a heart-break to leave them torn as whole." He laughed and went on," At least, that is the sort of feeling I have had now and then." I thought this willingness to talk of his meannesses, and his feelings in general, was most likely in consequence of the extreme danger he had just escaped from. People forget their shyness and their reserves at such times. As for me, I liked his straightforward openness ; it suited my humour and his circumstances. "And yet," I answered, speaking up for St. Peter, "the boat and the nets were all he had; and so they were as much as any of us can give." "I wonder what you give," I thought; and then I said aloud, "Do you think St. Paul expected the world to last as long as it has done?" "No," he answered, "nor (if he had known that it would last to this epoch) that he would have pictured to himself such a world as this is." 66 Because he would naturally expect that all Christians were to be like the first," I replied; "instead of which, if he could see us now 99 "Well! If he could see us now, Miss Graham? "He would perhaps suppose that we were not Christians at all." "Indeed! — yet he had a good deal of that most excellent gift of charity." "I hope, if our Saviour came, He would acknowledge a great many of us as Christians. But Paul!-I cannot see how Paul could. He could not see into our hearts, or make allowance for circumstances. I think he would be very indignant with us. Perhaps he would consider Christianity to be extinct, and want to found it over again. And you know, we could not argue with him about apostolic succession." 66 "That would be very awkward," said my patient, and to my surprise he laughed; but I think you would find," he added, "that we should all come in for his censure with mortifying equality. We should see the wonderful balance weighted again, should say all this to a young girl of whom he knew nothing, and that he should put such energy into his words when the pain in his shoulder absolutely forbade him to turn on his pillow. He complained that the bandage on his arm was tight, so I brought scissors to cut the thread, and a needle to fasten it again. As I handled his arm my hand trembled a little, and he said hoarsely, "Indeed, yon do it excellently well; I am grieved that on my behalf you are obliged to undertake what alarms you." As pain made him wince once or twice, I was a little frightened; for the excitement was over now, that in the night had "But, if we were all Christians, are you sure that there would be no more pov-made it easy. erty?" I had thought, several times during our conversation, that this must be the man whom I had heard so much of from Mr. Dickson, and, unable to repress the wish to know, I said, "May I look at your book again-at the fly-leaf?" He smiled, and asked "Why?" 66 "Because I wish to know who you are." He pushed the Testament towards me with his better hand, and said, “ Perhaps I feel the same curiosity as to you: first, a brave lady waiting in the night on the dead and the living 66 Oh, it is easy to do anything when one is excited." "Is it? So much the better; and then "And then a silly girl, I suppose, taking for granted that you must needs be a sailor a man before the mast- and also afraid to look at a burn." "Certainly not - that is, if (as we are pleased to suppose) we were such Christians as the first; for their crowning virtue was the conquering of their selfishness, and selfishness is the vice which stands in the world's light at present. Instead of subduing poverty by helping and inducing the poor to go out and inherit the earth, many of us wish to keep them crowded here, because their poverty is their inducement to labour for us rich. Why, if the swarms in the weaving and the spinning world are to be thinned, who will bring a revenue to the cotton-lord? If the crowded alley is to be deserted, who will make our shirts and our gowns? and if at the parish school we bring up all the children to fly like nestlings as soon as they are fledged, where are our housemaids and nursemaids and cookmaids to come from? Am I bound to reap my own corn, because a long way off a field lies fallow, that starving Jem Brown might reap for himself, if I would send him to it? Must my wife dress herself, because she has taught her pretty maid to sail for a place where she can be her own mistress? Must my daughter sit in the nursery, and sing her little brothers and sisters to sleep, because the village maidens grow too wise through her lessons to do the work of my house, and wish to go away, and be welcomed to houses of their own? No; truly God made my servant what he is; God placed me over him: let him The little three-year old cherub had not work it is his duty; let me play it is forgotten her "bauyan" days, and, holding my birthright; and let none of us pre-out her chubby arms, said "Oh, please, I sume to wish that God had placed us otherwise! This is what people say least a great many of them." "Having previously declared that she should not be afraid to bear it." "I think so still." "And then reading Greek; and now I was looking at the fly-leaf. Yes, it was as I had expected: there stood the name "Giles Brandon "I "I hope my name does not displease you," said my patient quietly. It pleased me at my very heart; but I did not say anything, only laid the book down again, and went to the berth of one of the children who had just awoke. want some pudding." at I wrapped her in a shawl, and took her into the chief cabin, where were Tom and my uncle; and while we sent Brand to fetch her some dinner, I said, “Why did you not tell me that was Mr. Brandon? What a singular man my supposed sailor now seemed to me, vehement as a boy -eyes dilating and flashing, but otherwise motionless as a log. Strange that he "How could I suppose you did not know 66 it?" was his not unnatural answer. As 1 "Why, lor', Miss Graham, your good he spoke, he was admiring the child's rosy purple coburg and thar excellent black little foot, holding it in his hand. cloth cloak." 46 "I shall have to change berths with you to-night," he presently said. Of all things I dislike being near people when they are ill." "I do not mind it in the least. I wish to be able to attend on them." "Oh, Brand must do all that to-night," said Tom; "and if you can do it in the day, well and good. I couldn't 66 Pooh !" said my uncle, mistaking the drift of our words. "I am very glad that Dorothea is not lackadaisical. If this Mr. Brandon were a young man, there might be some excuse, but he looks old enough to be her father." "His face is scorched and swollen," said Tom, "but I do not think he can be more than forty." Some cold rice pudding now appeared, and my little darling made with hands and tongue demonstrations of ecstacy. I began to feed her, and in the midst of the meal Mrs. Brand appeared with a frock, made of part of a gown which I had given her in the morning to cnt up for the children. She had been very diligent. "It is all cobbled up, ma'am," she said, "and so is the petticoat; bnt they will do for the present." "Oh it is beautiful, Mrs. Brand; and the next time my uncle and Mr. Graham go on deck, we will wash and dress the children here." "Which is as much as to say, that the sooner we go the better," observed my uncle. Mrs. Brand had been so busy, that she had forgotten her usual discontent; but now she suddenly remembered a new source of sorrow. "Well, we will talk of this some other time: that cloak was very unbecoming to me.' "Would ten pounds set the damage right?" asked my uncle of Mrs. Brand. 66 Yes, uncle; and five pounds I still have left of my allowance. Now, Mrs. Brand, go and fetch the other child; I hear her crying." "Ten pounds you shall have," said my uncle, very angrily, just as if he was decreeing me a punishment. I did not want him to find me such an expense just at first, but it was of no use disputing the point, so I thanked him with as good a grace as I could. and resolved that Mrs. Brand should have a scolding for her interference on the first convenient opportunity. The gowns I had given away were of very little use at sea. A black silk, a blue one, and the brown-holland affair that Mrs. Brand had made for me while I was ill, were all I now cared to retain, excepting some muslins which I kept to wear on shore; for a starched muslin becomes limp directly at sea, and most colours fade, so there was no self-denial in what I had done. In came Brand with a roast chicken, bread-sauce, and green peas; and Mrs. Brand with the other child, who was very cross and hard to please, did not want to be dressed, did not want any dinner, did not think the chief cabin was at all a pretty place no, and did not mean to be good. The roasted chicken, etc., were intended for Mr. Brandon, and Tom volunteered to go and give him his dinner, Brand following with the tray, and my uncle marching in brimful of hospitality, and probably bent on making his guest eat and drink more than was good for him. "And whatever is to be done," quoth she, "if we don't soon go into port, I'm sure I don't know; for our young lady has hardly a thing left to wear. Her gowns, "It's the queerest thing I ever knew, her white petticoats, her pocket-handker-ma'am," said Mrs. Brand, "that our name chers gone to the Irish folks; and these should be Brand and the gentleman's name pretty ones, and that blessed little cerpse Brandon." that I'm sure I haven't a word to say against." My uncle on hearing this looked aghast, and I said, “I think you and I can arrange this little matter without troubling the gentlemen about it." "Have you parted with much, Dorothea?" said my uncle. "Not with much, uncle, that was of use at sea." I admitted that it was odd, but it had not struck me before; and we were soon fully occupied with the children, my little pudding-eater beginning to cry because her sister did, and both fretting and pining all the time we were dressing them. Their new pink frocks pleased them, however; and the elder, after due persua sion, ate a little piece of bread and marmalade. I was bent on making them look nice to please my uncle; their wet shoes had been dried and blacked, their little socks washed and their hair carefully brushed, it hung down straight and silky over their cherub cheeks; but, though they looked rosy, they were still fatigued and listless, and at last, as nothing pleased them — it rained so that they could not go on deck I let the elder go back to her berth with Mrs. Brand, and kept the little one, thinking to manage her by myself. But I was deceived: no sooner was the elder child withdrawn than this little thing broke forth afresh into the most dismal wailing. "Oh, I want to go too! Oh, I want to go to my Mr. Bandon! Oh, I do, I do, I do! I don't like this place at all." I was soon obliged to promise that as soon as she was good she should go; thereupon came a smothering of the sobs, and the prompt assurance I are good." So I took her up and joined the assemblage in my cabin, where I found my uncle chatting to Mr. Brandon, while Tom carved for him, and Mrs. Brand sat in a corner nursing the elder child, who was gradually sobbing herself to sleep. More rest and more food had restored the voice which was so hoarse before; it was now deep and decided, but, like many another man who is fond of children, Mr. Brandon could soften his tones when he spoke to them, and make them caressing and tender. I held my pretty little tyrant in my arms, and she intimated that it was her pleasure to go and look at "her Mr. Bandon," so I took her up to his berth; and she gazed at him for awhile, saying, with a sage gravity, "He's got a very ugly face to-day; it's all over scratches." But I thought I had stood there long enough, so I bribed her with the promise of some pictures to come away; but even then she would not leave the cabin; she must stay, she said, and take care of Mr. Brandon; so the dinner being now cleared away, I retired, and left her there under the charge of Mrs. Brand. The sea-sickness, though it was quite gone, had, of course, left me rather weak; so I was not sorry to find the chief cabin empty; and I took a couch and sat down, to think over the events of the last few days and hours. The rain had ceased; I did not care to go on deck, but sat there reflecting till the natural consequence followed: I again fell asleep and dozed deliciously, till a sudden clatter of footsteps startled me, and Tom came in, crying out, "Come, Dorothea, come; your laziness astonishes me. you want to see the Great Skellig?" Don't Of course I rushed on deck. The Great Skellig! I had seen a picture of a rock a hard material thing; I had read descriptions of its geological strata; I knew it was a thousand feet high- but was this the Great Skellig? I stood amazed: there was a pale glassy sea, an empty sky, and right ahead of us, in the desert waters, floated and seemed to swim a towering spire of a faint rosy hue, and looking as if, though it was a mile off, its sharp pinnacle shot up into the very sky. |