Soon after their arrival in London an order for sailing arrived, and they were all obliged to get on board, without having time to show John much of the wonders of the metropolis. They however had the satisfaction of receiving good accounts from the Manse. Helen wrote to this effect, that, within a few days after the parting was once fairly over, her father recovered in a great degree his spirits, and that she had great hopes of seeing him soon as cheerful as ever. Marion wrote to John, and told him that she had been with Miss Helen for some days, and that she thought they were all much better than she had expected to find them; "but," she added, "the dale now looks so melancholy, I can scarcely believe it the same place."

The Amazon was now sent into the Mediterranean, therefore it was seldom that letters could pass between our navigators and their friends in Eskdale. About a year after they had left England, Captain Elliott received a letter, on putting into Gibraltar, from Mr. Martin, informing him of the sudden death of his mother. He said she had been complaining a few days, but they were not in the least alarmed till the day before her death, when Helen thought she perceived a change in her manner of speaking, and sent for Mr. Armstrong, who immediately saw she had had a stroke of the palsy. Nothing could be done; and before the next morning, another stroke carried her off. From the time she became seriously ill, she never quitted Helen's hand; having her near her seemed her only consolation.

Every letter that Mr. Martin received was filled with John's praises, Captain Elliott affirming he was a perfect treasure to him as a servant, as well as a great acquisition to the ship's company, and that he was such a happy good-tempered fellow that he was beloved by every one on board. William wrote regularly to his father, and his letters constituted the chief enjoyment of Mr. Martin's life. John sent him an account of all he saw and heard, that he thought would in any way serve to amuse either him or Helen; and, at the same time, he never forgot to send a letter to Marion in every packet.

This kind of communication had continued about two years, when one afternoon the sailors on board the Amazon discovered a strange sail at a distance, and Captain Elliott gave orders to give chase to her directly. As she was but a slow sailer they soon gained on her, and when they came near enough, William was ordered into the boat, to go alongside and discover what she was. The wind blew rather fresh, and the clouds looked lowering. John, who was standing on deck, took alarm at the weather, and coming up to William as he was preparing to enter the boat, endeavoured to persuade him to speak to the Captain before he went. "He has not looked at the sky, I am sure," said John, "or he would never send you on such an expedition"—"Pho! pho!" answered William, "we must have no fresh-water sailors here. Go I must; so there is no alternative. My orders are explicit."—"Then, Sir, permit me to go with you," said John. "I am an expert swimmer, which you are not; and I really feel so very wretched and uncomfortable at seeing my master's son go out in such a night, that if you won't take me otherwise, I will run and get the Captain's orders to be of the party, and then you cannot refuse."—"No, John," said William, "if there really is danger, I shall not needlessly expose more lives than I can help. God bless you, my lad. See that you have a dry shirt for me, when I come back; for I think we are likely to have wet jackets. Here is my key. Mind your orders!" So saying, he jumped into the boat; and though John ran as quick as he could, to get the Captain's permission to accompany him, the boat had left the ship by the time he came back. John staid on deck, watching with a glass all the boat's movements; he saw it safe alongside the other vessel, where it was detained nearly half-an-hour, he then had just light enough to see it leave the ship on its way back.

Oh! what an anxious hour was the next! The wind had been gradually rising, and by this time nearly blew a hurricane. John could conceal his uneasiness no longer; he ran down below to the Captain, who had been unwell, and was lying in his cot. "Captain Elliott," exclaimed he, "for God's sake get up, and see if any thing can be done to save Mr. William."—"Good God! John," said Captain Elliott, starting up from a sound sleep, "it blows a hurricane. How long has the boat been out? Why was I not called before?" John said that the sailors on deck, even now, did not consider there was any danger; but that the boat had been parted from the other ship above an hour, and he could not help feeling very uneasy. The night was excessively dark, and it rained in torrents.

Captain Elliott got on deck instantly; he was perfectly convinced that John had not been alarmed without good cause. Every expedient that could be thought of was tried. They hung out lights at every part of the ship, to direct the boat in its course; but alas! no boat appeared. Such a night of wretchedness did Captain Elliott and John spend, as cannot possibly be related. When day broke, it required force to prevent John from throwing himself into the sea, as if he meant to search the ocean for his dear master's son. He absolutely screamed with agony, when a boat that had been sent out in search of the one missing returned, bringing a hat, with poor William's name inside of it. There was not a shadow of hope. Captain Elliott, who till now had never quitted the deck, fainted away at this confirmation of the ruin of all his poor brother's happiness, and indeed of his own.

William had been as dear to him as a son, almost from the moment he had seen him; and for the last eight years they had scarcely ever been separated. He was carried down to his cabin insensible, whilst poor John's equal, though more violent grief, attracted the attention of the first lieutenant, who had him taken to his own cabin, and endeavoured in every way he could think of to soften the misery he could not remove.

Several weeks passed over their heads, and no opportunity offered of writing to England. Indeed both Captain Elliott and John dreaded the thoughts of putting pen to paper to give this intelligence. "It will kill his father," said the Captain; "but I shall never live to hear it, most probably." John asked him if he felt unwell; "I am not well, John," answered he; "my complaints were but trifling till this unlucky affair; my head and soul were wrapt up in that boy, and to lose him in such a way has quite ruined my constitution. Take my advice, John," added he, "return to Eskdale as soon as you have an opportunity. Now that poor William is gone, you will be a comfort to his father, should he survive the blow, which I do not believe; but in all events, you may be of serious use to my poor niece, who, God knows, will require a friend. Promise me, John, that you will be this friend, and I shall feel more comfortable in looking forward to my own death." John gave him the promise required; and there was no opportunity of resuming the subject.

The very next morning after this conversation, an engagement took place with two large French frigates. Captain Elliott and his crew performed prodigies of valour; but at last, unfortunately, Captain Elliott received a shot through the heart, which killed him on the spot. He fell into the arms of John, who stood behind him, and was carried below, in hopes that the wound was not mortal; but the surgeon only shook his head; all was over.

When the ship was taken possession of by the French, John was found sitting on the floor of the cabin, by the side of his captain's body, perfectly insensible to all that was passing around him. He took no notice of any thing, till they attempted to move the body. He then threw himself on it, and entreated they would bury them together; saying he now no object to live for. As he repeated this, a sudden flash of recollection crossed his mind. "Yes," exclaimed he, "I have still a great and important duty to perform to Miss Helen and my master!" He then suffered them to remove the captain, and became more composed from that moment.

When the ship was carried into Toulon, John and the other prisoners were ordered immediately to Thoulouse. Mr. Murray, the first lieutenant, who had been so kind to John at the time of William's death, still felt a great interest for him. He was a kind-hearted young man, and seemed to enter into all John's feelings. He endeavoured, on their long and wearisome march, to keep him near himself; and when they reached Thoulouse, he prevailed on his guard to allow John to remain with him as his servant. He was a man of considerable property, and being allowed to draw on England for remittances, had it in his power to obtain many favours and advantages denied to his poorer companions.

Meantime Mr. Martin and Helen were looking forward with the hope of seeing their sailor friends very shortly. William, in the last letter his father had from him, said he thought the ship would most probably be sent home in the course of the next autumn, and that his uncle had promised to give him leave of absence for a fortnight; "and in that time," he added, "I shall try hard to get another peep at my friends in Eskdale."

One morning, as they were at breakfast, Helen said, "Surely that is Mr. Scott, from Craigie Hall; what can have brought him here?" and rising, she opened the glass door. Mr. Scott came in and sat down. He did not seem to have any thing particular to say beyond common occurrences, yet still he remained; and Helen wondered what could be the meaning of the visit. As she rose to move something from the table, she observed him make her a sign to leave the room unobserved by her father: a cold chill came over her. "What can be the matter?" thought she, as she entered the parlour.

In a few minutes Mr. Scott quitted the study, and going out at the front door, beckoned at the parlour window for her to follow him.

"What can you have to say, Mr. Scott?" said Helen, as she approached him; and, suddenly struck with the look of woe that was in his face, would have fallen if he had not supported her. "William?" uttered she, and could say no more. Mr. Scott then said, "the family at the hall receive many of the London newspapers, and sometimes the housekeeper sends them in for me to read. The family are all gone on a visit from home for some days, consequently the paper was sent me early. I have, my dear Miss Helen, read a very unpleasant account of the Amazon: but it may not be correct; and even if it is so, Mr. William may yet be safe, for his name is not mentioned." "My uncle's is then," said Helen, greatly agitated; "Thank God! my grandmother did not live to hear this: but wait a moment, Mr. Scott, I shall be able to hear it all presently." She leant against the gate for a few seconds, and then begged Mr. Scott to read the paragraphs. He did so; and then said, "I thought, Miss Helen, it was best to tell you this dreadful news in the first place, that you might consider how our good Minister can be informed of it; for he will certainly hear it in the dale from somebody, and I think it will be better to break it to him by degrees." Helen thought so too. "But how can I tell him," said she, weeping, "both my dear uncle's death and William's imprisonment, all at once? It seems more than he can ever bear," and recollecting John, suddenly said, "poor Marion, too, will feel for John. All, all our friends at once, is too much to bear." Mr. Scott was a very sensible man. He allowed her to weep for some time and then, seeing her a little more composed, said, "You must, my dear Miss Helen, endeavour to moderate your grief, for the sake of your father. I see him coming toward the green, and if he observe us he will be alarmed." Helen replied, "I will do all I can, but I cannot possibly see him just yet; so I shall get into the house without meeting him, if possible. Leave me the paper, and good morning!"

It required all Helen's gentleness and caution to inform her poor father of this afflicting news. Notwithstanding all the precaution and care with which she broke it to him, he fainted before she could finish the narration; and though he endeavoured to regain composure, it was evident to Helen that his strength was sinking. Nothing, however, seemed to bear so hard upon him as the uncertainty of the fate of William. Nothing had been mentioned of him, and indeed nothing could be known, for there had been no communication from the ship between the time of his accident and that of their being all taken prisoners. The winter passed on: a long a dreary one it was to Helen and her father. Marion, likewise, looked ill and melancholy; she had loved John as a brother, and his loss was severely felt. Early in the spring, Mr. Martin had occasion to go to Langholm; Helen insisted on accompanying him. After finishing his business, they were passing the inn where the mail stops. Just as they got to the door of it, the landlord was standing speaking to a sailor, a good-looking man, and seeing Mr. Martin, he said, hastily, "Oh, Mr. Martin, this person is just returned from Thoulouse, in France; he has made his escape. Perhaps he may be able to give you some account of Mr. William!" Mr. Martin, on hearing this, turned to the man, and asked him what ship he had belonged to, and how he became a prisoner. "I belonged, Sir, to the Amazon, and was taken with the whole ship's company that remained after the battle."—"Tell me," said Mr. Martin, quickly, "was William Martin, Captain Elliott's nephew, at Thoulouse when you left it?" "Oh, no!" said the man, "he was drowned six weeks before the battle." Mr. Martin heard no more; he fell as if a shot had passed through his heart. The landlord carried him into the inn, and sent for Mr. Armstrong; his poor daughter, almost in as pitiable a state as he was, still endeavoured to exert herself to save her father. She undid his stock, rubbed his face and hands with vinegar, and tried every means her experience had ever found useful, at last Mr. Armstrong made his appearance. He was excessively alarmed, and begged Helen would leave the room; but she answered, firmly, "No, Mr. Armstrong, I never will quit my father whilst a spark of life remains. He is not dead yet, for I feel his pulse; therefore do not talk of my leaving him, even for an instant." In the evening Mr. Martin just opened his eyes, fixed them on Helen, and said, "My poor girl:" and drawing a long sigh, was removed from all his sufferings.