BY BOWMAN TILLER.

CHAPTER I.

It was about half a century ago in the closing twilight of an autumnal evening at that period of the season when the falling of the sear and yellow leaves indicated the near approach of winter, that a lady was seated at work in one of those comfortable parlours which, as far as the memory of living man can go back, were at all times considered essential to an Englishman's ideas of enjoyment, and which certainly were not and are not to be found, approaching to the same degree of commodious perfection, in any other part of the world. By her side sat a beautiful boy some seven or eight years of age, whose dark glossy ringlets hung clustering down his shoulders over the broad and open white cambric collar of his shirt. His full and fair face bore the ripened bloom of ruddy health, and his large blue eyes, even though a child, were strongly expressive of tenderness and love. The lady herself was fair to look upon, possessing a placid cast of countenance which, whilst it invited esteem and confidence, calmly repelled impertinence or disrespect; her eyes, like those of her son, were mild and full, and meltingly blue, and through the shades of long dark lashes discoursed most eloquently the language of affectionate solicitude and fond regard; and it was impossible to look upon them, or be looked upon by them, without experiencing a glow of pleasure, warming and nourishing all the better feelings and purposes of the heart. In age she was twenty-six, but matronly anxiety gave her the appearance of being some two or three years older; her figure was faultless, and the tight sleeve of her gown fitting closely to her arm, and confined with a bracelet of black velvet at the wrist, displayed the form of a finely moulded limb; and the painter or the sculptor would have been proud to copy from so admirable a model.

The floor of the room was covered with a soft Turkey carpet, which, though somewhat faded, still retained in many parts its richness of colours. The panelled walls were of oak that had endured for more than one generation; and though time had thrown his darkened shadows over them, as if to claim them for his own, art had been called in aid, if not to defeat his claims, yet to turn them to advantage; for the blackened wood was polished to a mirror-like brightness, and instead of dispensing gloom, its reflections were light and cheerful. Suspended in the upper compartments and surrounded with oval frames, tastefully carved and gilt, were well executed portraits by the celebrated masters of those and earlier days.

Between the two windows, where the whole of the light was thrown upon the person, hung suspended a pier looking-glass in a well-carved mahogany frame surrounded by the plume of the Prince of Wales, bearing the appropriate motto for the reflecting tablet itself, "Ich Dien;" and at the corners, in open work, were cut full-ripe ears of corn in their golden glory, sheaved together with true-love knots.

In one angle of the room stood a lofty circular dumb-waiter, its planes decreasing as they rose in altitude and bearing a display of wine-glasses with those long white tortuous spiral columns, which, like the screw of Archimedes, has puzzled older heads than those of childhood to account for the everlasting turns. There were, also, massive articles of plate of various periods, from the heavy spoons with the sainted apostles effigied at the extremity of the handles, to the silver filigree wrought sugar-stand, with its basin of blue enamelled glass. There were also numerous figures of ancient China, more remarkable for their fantastic shapes than either for ornament or for use.

The tables were of dark mahogany, the side slabs curiously deviced, and the legs assuming something of an animal form with the spreading paw of the lion or the tiger on each foot. One table, however, that was carefully placed so as to be remote from danger, had a raised open-work, about two inches in height, round the edges of its surface, to protect and preserve the handsome and much-prized tea-service, which had been brought by a seafaring ancestor as a present from the "Celestial Empire."

A commodious, soft-cushioned, chintz-covered sofa occupied one side of the parlour, and the various spaces were filled with broad and high-backed mahogany chairs, whose capacious seats were admirable representatives of composure and ease. But there was one with wide-spreading arms, that seemed to invite the weary to its embrace; it was stuffed with soft material, and covered entirely with thick yellow taffeta, on which many an hour of laborious toil had been expended to produce in needle-work imitations of rich fruit and gorgeous flowers; it was a relic of antiquity, and the busy fingers that had so skilfully plied the task had long since yielded to mouldering decay.

The fire-place was capacious, and its inner sides were faced with earthenware tiles, on which were represented scenes and sketches taken from scripture history. It is true that some of the delineations bore a rather incongruous character: the serpent erecting itself on the tip of its tail to beguile Eve; the apple, whose comparative dimensions was calculated to set the mouth of many a schoolboy watering; and not unfrequently a mingling of the SelectÆ e Profanis amongst the groups caused curious speculations in the youthful mind. But who can call to recollection the many evening lectures which this constant fund of instruction and amusement afforded, without associating them with pleasing remembrances of innocence and peace?

The fire-grate was large, and of the old-fashioned kind, somewhat of a basket-like form, small at the bottom, but spreading out into wider range as its side boundaries ascended.

Lighted tapers were on the table, together with a lady's work-box, and the small, half-rigged model of a vessel, which the boy had laid down that he might peruse the history and voyages of Philip Quarll, and now, sitting by his mother's knee, he was putting questions to her relative to the sagacious monkeys who were stated to have been poor Philip's personal attendants and only friends.

Emily Heartwell was, in every sense of the term, the "beloved" wife of a lieutenant in the British royal navy, who had bravely served with great credit to himself and advantage to the honour of his country's flag; but unfortunately becoming mixed up with the angry dissensions that had arisen amongst political partisans through the trial of Admiral Keppel by court-martial, he remained for some length of time unemployed, but recently, through the influence and intervention of his former commander and patron, Sir George (afterwards Lord) Rodney, he had received an appointment to a ship-of-the-line that was then fitting out to join that gallant admiral in the West Indies.

The father of Lieutenant Heartwell had risen from humble obscurity to the command of a West Indiaman; and his son having almost from his childhood accompanied him in his voyages, the lad had become early initiated in the perils and mysteries of a seaman's life, so that on parting with his parent he was perfectly proficient in all the important duties that enable the mariner to counteract the raging of the elements, and to navigate his ship in safety from port to port. What became of the father was never accurately known. He was bound to Jamaica with a valuable cargo of home manufactures; he was spoken off the Canaries, and reported all well; but from that day no tidings of him had been heard, and it was supposed that the ship had foundered at sea, and all hands perished.

By some fortuitous circumstance, young Heartwell had been brought under the especial notice of the intrepid Rodney, who not only placed him on the quarter-deck of his own ship, but also generously patronised and maintained him through his probationary term, and at its close, though involved in difficulties himself, first procured him a lieutenant's commission, and then presented him with a handsome outfit, cautioning him most seriously, as he was a good-looking fellow, not to get entangled by marriage, at least, till he had attained post-rank, or was regularly laid up with the gout, when he was perfectly at liberty to take unto himself a wife.

But the lieutenant had a pure, unsophisticated mind, sensibly alive to all the blandishments of female beauty, but with discretion to avoid that which he considered meretricious, and to prize loveliness of feature only when combined with principles of virtue rooted in the heart. Ardently attached to social life, it can excite but little wonder that on mature acquaintance with the lady who now bore his name, he had forgotten the injunction of his commander; and, being possessed of a little property, the produce of well-earned prize-money, he offered himself to the acceptance of one who appeared to realise his most fervent expectations; and, when it is considered that to a remarkably handsome person the young lieutenant united some of the best qualities of human nature, my fair readers will at once find a ready reason for his suit not being rejected. In short, they were married. The father of Mrs. Heartwell, a pious clergyman, performed the ceremony, and certainly in no instance could there have been found two persons possessing a stronger attachment, based on mutual respect and esteem.

An uncle, the brother of the lieutenant's father had, when a boy, gone out to the East Indies, but he kept up very little communication with his family, and they had for some time lost sight of him altogether, when news arrived of his having prospered greatly, and the supposition was that he had amassed a considerable fortune. As this intelligence, however, was indirect, but little credit was given to it, and it probably would have passed away from remembrance, or at least been but little thought of, had not letters arrived announcing the uncle's death, and that no will could be discovered.

The lieutenant, as the only surviving heir, was urged to put in his claim; and, though he himself was not very sanguine in his expectations that his uncle had realised a large fortune, yet it gratified him to think that there might be sufficient to assist in securing a respectable and comfortable maintenance for his wife and child during his absence. From an earnest desire to surprise Mrs. Heartwell with the pleasing intelligence, he had for the first time since their union refrained from informing her of his proceedings; and on the afternoon of the day on which our narrative opens, he had appointed to meet certain parties connected with the affair at the office of Mr. Jocelyn Brady, a reputed clever solicitor in Lincoln's Inn, when the whole was to be finally arranged, and the deeds and papers placed in his possession in the presence of witnesses.

Cherishing not only the hope, but also enjoying the conviction, that in a short time he should be able to gladden her heart, the lieutenant imprinted a warm and affectionate kiss on the lips of his wife, and pressing his boy in his arms with more than his usual gaiety, he bade them farewell for a few hours, promising at his return to communicate something that would delight and astonish them.

But, notwithstanding the hilarity of her husband, an unaccountable depression weighed heavily on the usually cheerful spirits of Mrs. Heartwell; and, whilst returning the embrace of her husband, a presentiment of distress, though she knew not of what nature or kind, filled her bosom with alarm; and a heavy sigh—almost a groan—burst forth before she had time to exercise consciousness, or to muster sufficient energy to restrain it. The prospect of, and the near approach to, the hour of their separation, had certainly oppressed her mind, but she would not distress her husband by openly yielding to the manifestation of grief that might render their parting more keenly painful. She had vigorously exerted all her fortitude to bear up against the anticipated trial which awaited her, of bidding a long adieu to the husband of her affections and the father of her child; but the pressure which now inflicted agony was of a different character to what she had hitherto experienced. It was a foreboding of calamity as near at hand, an undefined and undefinable sensation, producing faintness of spirit and sickness of heart; her limbs trembled, her breath faltered, and she laid her head upon his shoulder and burst into convulsive sobbings, that shook her frame with violent agitation.

I am no casuist to resolve doubtful cases, but I would ask many thousands who have to struggle with the anxious cares, the numerous disappointments, and all the various difficulties that beset existence, whether they have not had similar distressing visitations, previous to the arrival of some unforeseen calamity. What is it, then, that thus operates on the faculties to produce these symptoms? It cannot be a mere affection of the nervous system, caused by alarming apprehensions of the future, for, in most instances, nothing specific has been known or decided. May it not, therefore, be looked upon as a wise and kind ordination of providence, to prepare the mind for disastrous events that are to follow?

The lieutenant raised the drooping head of his wife, earnestly gazed on her expressive countenance, kissed away her tears, and then exclaimed, "How is this, Emily? what! giving way to the indulgence of sorrow at a moment when prosperity is again extending the right hand of good-fellowship? We have experienced adverse gales, my love, but we have safely weathered them; and now that we have the promise of favourable breezes and smooth sailing, the prospect of renewed joy should gladden your heart."

"But are you not soon to leave me, Frank?" returned Mrs. Heartwell, as she strove to subdue the feelings which agitated her, "and who have I now in the wide world but you?"

The lieutenant fervently and fondly pressed her to his heart, whilst with a mingled look of gentle reproach and ardent affection he laid his disengaged hand on the head of his boy, who raising his tear-suffused eyes to the countenance of his mother, as he endeavoured to smile, uttered, "Do not be afraid mama, I will protect you till papa comes back!"

The silent appeal of her husband and the language of her child promptly recalled the wife and the parent to a sense of her marital and maternal duties—she instantly assumed a degree of cheerfulness; and the lieutenant engaging to be home as early as practicable, took his departure to visit his professional adviser.

The only male attendant (and he was looked upon more in the character of a humble friend than as a servant) on the lieutenant's establishment was an attached and faithful seaman, of some five-and-thirty years of age, who had undeviatingly adhered to the fortunes of his officer from the first moment of his entering into the naval service. He had served under Rodney from boyhood, first in the Prince George ninety-eight—then in the Dublin seventy-four; and, subsequently, when the admiral hoisted his flag, he accompanied him in his career of glory, and was present in those memorable engagements which ultimately raised the British ensign to its proud supremacy on the ocean.

Possessed of a lively and contented turn of mind, Ben Brailsford was always cheerful and gay—his temper and his disposition coincided—there was, at all times, a pleasant smile upon his cheek and a kind word upon his tongue, and, in point of fact, his only faults were an occasional indulgence to excess in his favourite beverage—grog, and his still more excessive loquacity when spinning a tough yarn about his favourite commander, Rodney, though it not unfrequently happened that one helped on the other.

I have already remarked that young Frank—for he was named after his father—was by his mother's side, and questioning her upon the subject of Philip Quarll's monkeys—but though desirous of imparting instruction to her son, yet her spirit was too much bowed down even to attend to him; besides, this was a matter of natural history with which she was but little acquainted, and, therefore, he was referred to honest Ben, as the best authority to answer his inquiries. Ben was accordingly summoned, and smoothing down his hair over his forehead with his hard horny hand as he entered the room, he "hoped as madam was well and master Frank all ship-shape."

"I am thinking of your master's departure, Ben," returned the lady, "and therefore cannot be very easy in my mind, when I consider the risks to which he will be exposed on the turbulent ocean, both in the storm and in the battle."

"Bless you, my lady," returned the seaman, "what's the vally of a bit of a breeze, where there's skill and judgment to read the face of the heavens, and good practical seamanship to ease her with the helm, when the wild seas break over us—and as for a fight, why its pretty sharp work whilst it lasts, but when it's over and the grog abroach—not, my lady, as I ever gives way to more than does me good—but as I was a saying, when the action's ended and the grog sarved out"—and here he cast his eyes towards a well-replenished liquor-case that stood in the corner, and from which he had often been supplied—"why we shares it along with our prisoners, and drinks to the mortal memory of them as is gone."

"But it must be a dreadful spectacle, Ben, to witness the dead and the dying mingled together," said the lady, with a shudder, "the slain and the wounded in one promiscuous heap."

"Bless you, my lady, that comes o' not knowing the jometry of the thing," returned Brailsford, in a tone and expression that evidenced experience; "they aren't by no manner o' means in one permiskus heap, for as soon as we find an onfortinate shipmate has let go the life-lines—and its easy diskivered by pressing the hand over the heart and feeling for the pallypitation—just for all the world Master Frank, as you'd listen for the ticking of a watch in a noisy place—and if so be as you don't find that there's not never no wibration, but all is motionless, from the main-spring having been carried away, so that the wheels have run down, why we knows well enough that the doctor's knife and all his medicine chest wouldn't get him to lend a hand to run out another gun, or rouse aboard the main-tack—so we launches him out at the port as expended stores, and we turns-to with a hearty good will to avenge his death."

"But do they serve the officers so?" inquired Mrs. Heartwell, whose cheeks had become blanched during the plain recital of the seaman; "surely there is some funeral ceremony, some—" and she paused.

"Bless you, my lady, what's the odds so as you're happy," responded Ben, scratching his head, whilst a good-humoured smile mantled over his face; "but the real truth of the thing is, that the officers being a sort of privileged class, expect a cast of the chaplin's wadee mecum—that's the parson's Latin for prayer-book, Master Frank; but to my thinking a poor dev—that is, I means an onfortinate as sticks his spoon in the beckets for a full-due and loses the number of his mess, whilst sarving his country heart and soul—has rubbed out a multitude of sins whilst sponging his gun in the regard of dooty."

"I dearly love my country, Ben; I should be unworthy the name of Englishwoman if I did not," returned the lady with fervour, as in the course of conversation she endeavoured to overcome her depression; "but why fight at all?"

This query to one of Rodney's tars would have been quite sufficient, had the law been administered then as it is in the present day, to have subjected the questioner to a commission of lunacy; and Ben gave his mistress an earnest look, shading his eyes with his hand that he might not be deceived by the glare of the lights. At first he thought she was in joke, but finding from the unchangeableness of her countenance that she was serious, he replied—

"Well, my lady, in regard o' the upshot of fighting, it isn't for an onedecated tar like myself to dilute upon the religion of the thing; but, bless you, my lady, suppose as you had the English ensign hoisted on the staff, or, for the matter o' that, at the gaff-end, and an enemy was to dare to presume to be so onveterate bould as to fire a shot at it;" he warmed as he proceeded, "why wouldn't you, my lady, open your ports and run out your guns for the honour of ould England's glory? And when your guns are run out, why what's the use on 'em if you don't clap a match to the touch-holes and pour in a reg'lar broadside?"

"Oh, it must be horrible work, Ben," said Mrs. Heartwell, as the picture of her husband, mangled and dying, was visibly presented to her view; "you throw the supposed dead overboard without being certain that life is extinct—"

"Avast, my lady, avast; we never does that—no, no; a shipmate or a messmate aren't so easily expended," returned Ben, with a solemn shake of the head. "But there's a sort of nat'ral inkstink amongst us tars—a kind of cable-splice with each other, so that we knows at once as well as any doctor as ever sarved his time at pill-building when the strands are drawn, and the craft has slipped from its moorings; that is, my lady, jist as this here, we can tell in a moment when a shipmate or messmate has broke adrift and got beyond hail; bless you, they're all distinct afore we gives 'em a launch, and as for the wounded, why they're carried below to the cockpit to get dressed, or to have their precious limbs lopped off like old junk, condemned as onsarviceable. But what's the odds, my lady, so as you're happy?"

One of Ben's peculiarities, and which long habit had rendered perfectly familiar to him, was the general use of the expression "What's the odds so as you're happy?" and as he mostly contrived to lug it in whatever the course of conversation might be, it often happened that it found utterance on very inappropriate occasions. The idea of happiness connected with the amputating of a limb would never have entered the mind of any other person than Ben; but his mistress was too much accustomed to the humane and generous disposition of the worthy seaman to suppose that he was indulging in levity, or ridiculing distress; she was perfectly aware that all Ben intended to convey was, that "a contented mind might be supported under every trial and misfortune."

Young Frank had listened, as he always did, very attentively to Ben's explanations and descriptions, and though the delicate sensibilities of the lad were very naturally wounded by the recital of narratives of deeds of blood and violence, yet when the seaman entered upon details of chivalrous enterprise connected with the necessity of asserting his country's honour, his youthful heart would glow with earnest desire to be enrolled amongst the brave of his native land. His mother had discouraged his unmatured but ambitious aspirings; her maternal solicitude had looked forward with sickening dread at the thoughts of her only child being exposed to the perils of the ocean. She had endured the long-suffering of anxious care and hope deferred during the absence of her husband, and her very soul dwelt with increased alarm and apprehension on the probability that not only would an additional weight of anxiety and distress encumber the every-day circumstances of life should her boy become a mariner, but there was also the certainty that in his departure she would lose one of the principal props to animated existence; the dear little companion of her leisure hours, with whom she could unreservedly converse upon a subject that was ever uppermost in her thoughts,—his father. Then the idea of loneliness preyed upon her mind; and, there is something so cold and chilling in the thoughts of being left alone in the world, cut off from connexions that were once eminently endearing to the affections, to sit hour after hour, and day after day, communing with one's own sad heart, to pass the nights in sleepless retrospection, as visions of past enjoyment flit in pleasing array before the imagination, and then to turn the mind's eye to the obscure but dreaded events of the coming future, where all is darkened by gloomy forebodings; there is a keen and horrible distress in such meditative contemplations, that is calculated to waste the stoutest frame, and to unsettle the soundest reason; and happy indeed are they who seek for consolation from whence it alone can be obtained.

Although Mrs. Heartwell experienced more pain than pleasure at Ben's recitals of storms and battles, yet she not unfrequently provoked him into narratives of danger and of death, for the purpose—as she hoped—of deterring her son from entering upon so hazardous an occupation as that of a seaman. But whilst she partially succeeded in awakening the acute sensibilities of the lad as to the difficulties to be encountered, so also was the pride and curiosity of an adventurous spirit aroused, and young Frank grew more attached to the interesting accounts of foreign lands, and delineations of distant countries, than frightened at the tales of the battle and the breeze.

Philip Quarll had been laid aside whilst Ben stood conversing with his mistress—whom he at all times honoured with the appellation of "my lady,"—but now the seaman was requested to sit down and explain the nature of the monkeys, the book was resumed, and Frank inquired "whether Ben had ever seen an ape wild in the woods."

"Why, yes, Master Frank," responded the seaman, as he seated himself near the table, but at a respectful distance from his mistress. "I have seen 'em hanging on by the eye-lids amongst the trees."

"Hanging on by the eye-lids, Ben!" repeated Frank, in surprise; "why how could they do that?"

"Why to be sure, Master Frank, they warn't exactly holding fast by the eye-lids," returned the seaman, smiling; "but we uses the term as a figure o' speech, meaning as it's next to dancing upon nothing."

This did not much mend the lad's knowledge of the matter, but as he was eager to hear something of the monkey tribe, he inquired "And how much bigger, Ben, is a Chimpanzee than an ape?"

"A what, Master Frank—a Jem Pansy?" demanded the seaman, looking at the picture of Quarll with his attendants. "Do they call them Jem Pansies? well, to my thinking, it arn't natral to give a christen-like name to such oncivilized brutes as haven't got no rational faculties."

Frank explained, and the two were soon in deep and earnest conversation upon the relative qualities and characteristics of monkeys, whilst Mrs. Heartwell continued her work, occasionally listening to their discourse, but her thoughts principally engrossed by contemplating the coming separation from her husband. The ancient clock, which stood on a bracket at the first landing of the stairs, struck nine, and the lady, who had for some time been growing more and more uneasy at the lieutenant's stay, directed Ben to have the supper things in readiness, and when he had left the room, Frank was desired to prepare himself for bed. Kneeling at his mother's feet, with hands closed together, he repeated his evening prayer, imploring the Divine Being to bless his parents—the servant lighted him to his room—and weary nature soon found refreshment in the sweet repose of undisturbed slumber.

Another hour passed away, and the anxious wife grew more restless and uneasy; she laid her watch upon the table, and though the hour was late, yet she felt impatient at the tardy movement of the hands, hoping that each succeeding minute would bring her husband home. But still he came not, and time continued to progress, unheeding both the joy and the sorrow that accompanied his eventful career. In vain did she strive to subdue the fluctuating emotions that, like the undulating swell of the ocean giving warning of an approaching tempest, seemed to indicate that a severe trial was at hand. Every foot-fall in the street had excited hope, which died away with the receding sound; and the almost hysterical and sudden gush of delight was succeeded by a revulsion of sickening uncertainty and fearful surmisings. Why or wherefore, she could not tell.

But midnight was drawing near, the weather which had been fine became tempestuous, the winds howled and the rain beat against the windows, and the streets were deserted, except by the ancient watchman, whose slow and heavy tread could not be mistaken for the eager springiness of vigorous strength prompted by ardent affection hurrying to the home of the heart. Mrs. Heartwell tried to compose her mind by reading, but the effort was futile; the constant changes in the course of her thoughts disconnected the sentences, and the visions which torturing apprehensions conjured up were infinitely more vivid than the incidents recorded on the printed page. At length, weary nature claimed her due, and she fell into uneasy slumber; but though the mortal frame had yielded to fatigue, and strove to gain refreshing energy by repose, the intellect was still awake and powerful to witness the conflicting occurrences that filled up the scenic representations in the dramatic shiftings of her dream.

And oh, how fearfully confused were the visions of Mrs. Heartwell's restless sleep! She saw her husband struggling with the waves as the lightning flashed and the wild tempest howled above his head, and she rushed into the vortex of the dark and bubbling waters to try and snatch him from destruction. But vain were her endeavours to approach him—they were hurled hither and thither upon the crests of the foaming billows, but could not grasp each other's hands; and then the scene suddenly changed, and she beheld the lieutenant wounded and bleeding on the deck as the stream of life was ebbing fast away. They were surrounded by the thunder and the smoke of battle; dark and vindictive, and gore-stained countenances were peering upon her through the curling vapours, and there was one amongst them more dark, more vindictive, more sanguinary than the rest, but the thickened and dense atmosphere was constantly throwing it into obscurity, so as to leave no especial tracings on the memory. She tried to get to her husband, but still that mysterious being constantly debarred her progress; her limbs became paralysed; she could see the lieutenant most distinctly, though the rest were enveloped in gloom; and as he looked at her with his sight fast fading away, the dim eyes were still expressive of the inseparable mingling of anxious solicitude and fervent tenderness.

Once more the picture changed; she was in her own dwelling, in that very parlour, clasped in his embrace as the fervid kiss of affection was impressed upon her lips. She would have chided his delay, but the delight that glowed within her bosom and the sound of his voice in cheerful greeting dispelled the anguish she had endured, and stifled the language of reproach before it could find utterance—She was again happy in his society. The lieutenant took his usual seat by the fireside opposite to his wife, and she was gazing upon him with feelings of gratification rendered more rich and delightful from the previous suffering she had experienced, when suddenly his features assumed a rigid and swollen aspect, a livid hue was on his cheeks, his limbs were stark and motionless, as he sat stiffly erect, whilst his eyes almost starting from his head were fixed intently upon her.

"You are ill, Frank," was her imagined exclamation, as she essayed to rise from her chair but could not. "Oh do not look upon me thus—speak, speak to me," but the figure remained immovable—not a muscle of the face was stirred, and again that dark mysterious countenance, with its undefined outlines and misty filling up, appeared between them. "Oh, what is this, Frank?" uttered she, in a voice shrill and piercing through the extremity of agony; and bursting the bonds of sleep, she sprang from her chair at the very instant that Ben opened the door of the room, and looked round it in surprise. "Where is he, Ben, where is he?" demanded the agitated woman, as she stared wildly on the vacant seat.

"Bless you, my lady," responded the seaman as he stood within the half-opened door, "I thought as Muster Heartwell were here, seeing as he hailed me jist now in the kitchen, and I've come to see what his pleasure is?"

A thrill of horror instantaneously seized upon every portion of Mrs. Heartwell's frame—a sensation that for the moment struck at the very seat of vitality, and was carried through the entire system. "It cannot be," at length she uttered; "no one has opened the doors—the servants are all in bed:" she gasped for breath as she falteringly continued, "Father of Heaven, in mercy relieve me from this dreadful state. Yes, yes, it must have been—it is nothing more than a dream," and seating herself upon the sofa, she buried her face upon the pillow, and burst into unrestrained and irrepressible tears.

Ben had implicitly obeyed the instructions of his mistress in seeing the supper materials prepared, and at the accustomed hour the maid-servants went to bed, leaving the gallant seaman alone in the kitchen to the enjoyment of his pipe and a well-filled stiff glass of cold grog. Unaccustomed to scrutinise the conduct of his superiors, Ben gave himself but little trouble or consideration for the unusually long-continued absence of his master; and if a thought did obtrude it was merely to conjecture that the lieutenant might have fallen in with some old messmates or friends, who, in the height of enjoyment over their social or festive intercourse, had induced him to stay out beyond his ordinary time for returning. It is true Ben reasoned upon deductions based upon what he himself would have done under similar circumstances; for though the worthy tar had practised a little of the amiable towards Sally the housemaid, yet he was unacquainted with, and consequently could not well account for, the secret and hidden springs that prompted the undeviating attention of Mr. Heartwell in studying the comfort and happiness of his wife as intimately connected with his own.

Ben sat smoking and cogitating upon the station he should probably occupy when again upon the element he loved to control, and his spirit rose as he contrasted the busy routine of duty on board a smart ship at sea, with the idle and quiet of a calm life on shore even with Sally to sweeten it. He fancied himself once more at the weather wheel, as with a predominant feeling of pride he kept the given point of the compass without vibrating from the direct course he was ordered to steer; and then in his watch below with his brother tars keeping up Saturday night with grog, and jest, and jocund song; and as he made repeated applications to the jorum of strong beverage by his side, his fancy peopled the vacant space around him with messmates and shipmates till both pipe and glass were emptied, and he unconsciously resigned himself to the close embraces of a sailor's Morpheus.

He, too, had been dreaming, but it was of the mere ordinary concerns of the forecastle or main-top, without experiencing a single terrific sensation except when the supposed sonorous hail of the first lieutenant through his speaking-trumpet afforded a convincing testimonial that something more was expected in the exercise of their duties than the playfulness of childhood. But Ben heard it fearlessly, for he not only knew what he had to do, but he was also well versed in the most approved method of doing it, and ever active and obedient, he performed his task with alacrity and skill. Whilst thus involved in all the intricate mazes of visionary speculation, he thought he heard the well remembered sound of his master's voice calling upon him; and springing to his feet, he rubbed his eyes as he gave the usual responsive "Ay, ay, Sir," and found the lieutenant standing before him. But the delusion almost instantly ceased—the figure receded and disappeared, and as the door of the kitchen was shut, Ben concluded in his mind that it was all moonshine as to the appearance, that he really had heard his master's call, and hurrying up stairs he entered the parlour at the moment when his mistress awoke in such thrilling agony.

The flow of tears relieved her overcharged heart, and without questioning the seaman she sent him below again, and prostrating herself before her Maker, she offered up an earnest prayer for fortitude to undergo affliction, and tranquillity of mind to meet every dispensation that might occur—it was the poor dependant created, supplicating the high and Almighty creator; it was the weak and the defenceless imploring the aid of the Omnipotent. The appeal was heard and answered—the broken and the contrite spirit was not despised; and Mrs. Heartwell arose from her knees strengthened in the confidence that He who spread abroad immeasurable space and displayed the firmament as his handy work—who fed the young ravens when they cried, and clothed the lilies of the field in all their beauty, would not desert her in the hour of tribulation.