Really, Miss Chase," said Bob next morning, "I'm glad you didn't burst all your accomplishments on us at once. We might have been rather frightened of you."

Miss Chase smiled. She was looking very pale, and unlike her usual bright self.

"I hope I didn't do an awfully wrong thing," she said nervously; "but I had only two definite ideas—one was to save Nesta, the other not to let the man get away."

"You were perfectly right, Dorothy," Mr. Orban said; "there would never have been any end to the worry until he was caught. He may thank his stars I didn't find him out. I should not have been so merciful."

"So that is why you aimed at his ankle, Aunt Dorothy?" said Eustace. "It was clever of you to think of laming him."

"She says she did," said Bob, the tease.—"But are you quite sure, Miss Chase, that you really didn't aim at his head? For most women his ankle would have been wonderfully near the mark."

"I shall treat the aspersion with silent contempt," laughed Miss Chase."Where did you learn to shoot like that, Dorothy?" asked Mrs. Orban.

"Oh, I've patronized every shooting gallery that has come to the village for the last eighteen years, I should think," was the answer. "But, do you know, I feel most awfully remorseful about that poor fellow. He will be lame for a long time."

In the kitchen sat Manuel, the stable-boy, his leg bandaged and resting on a chair; for the midnight visitor on both occasions had been no other. He confessed to the first performance quite readily, and declared that this second had been at the instigation of Sinkum Fung, who promised always to get the reward for stolen goods, and give him half. Mr. Orban was not sorry to get hold of some definite reason for turning Sinkum Fung out of the place. He had long suspected him to be a cheat, and he wanted an Englishman in the store. But Manuel, when he was well, was to be allowed to retrieve his character, as he protested vehemently he would.

"You needn't worry about Manuel," said Bob. "We shall all be coming to you to shoot us, if you'll just bind us up as beautifully afterwards. Did you learn that in the shooting galleries too, in case you put the showman's eye out?"

Miss Chase really did treat this speech with silent scorn, and changed the subject.

The clearing up of the black-fellow mystery was a great relief to every one's mind.

"Though it comes rather late in the day, just when we are going away," said Mrs. Orban.

"Do you know, I don't feel a bit as if we were really going," Miss Chase declared the very evening before their departure.

All the same, when the next day came, they started in the plantation schooner for Cooktown, accompanied by Bob and Mr. Orban, who were going to see them off.

The children found many excitements on the way; and when finally they were hoisted on board the big boat by means of a crane and basket, Peter's joy knew no bounds.

Nesta found it was certainly not very nice saying the last "good-byes," and she wished Eustace had not said anything to her about the possibility of not coming back to Queensland for years.

But when they were fairly off, and out of sight of waving hands and the two strong, kind faces that had been his ideals from his babyhood, even Eustace began to cheer up considerably. He had been very much like a bear with a sore head, rather to his mother's and Miss Chase's astonishment; for Eustace could generally be counted on as sensible and fairly serene in temper. To get short answers from him, to find him unreasonably uninterested in things, and to see him really snappy with Nesta and Peter, was something new and extraordinary.

"Well, good-bye, old chap," said Bob. "Let England see the best side of you, and be a credit to us."

The words rang in the boy's ears long after, and he pulled himself together with a sudden consciousness that he had not been much of a credit to any one for some days. He hoped Bob hadn't noticed it, for never, never could he explain to him that it was just the thought of leaving him that made going away so hard. If only he had not been possessed by the horrible feeling that he would never come back again, or at least not for years and years, it would have been different.

It was impossible not to become interested in the boat before very long—it was so huge, such a real house afloat, and so unusual. Peter revelled in going downstairs to bed. Becky wanted to play in what she called her "bunky-bye" instead of going to sleep. Nesta eyed some other families of children speculatively, wondering how much good they would prove as friends on the voyage. But Eustace only wanted to talk to the officers, especially the captain, of whom he determined to ask hundreds of questions about the machinery, how he knew his way, and the exact time the boat would reach every port, just to be able to check it off, and see how far he was right in his estimates.

The first day was a lovely one—a less likely one to be productive of adventures could scarcely be imagined.

"Calm as a duck-pond, isn't it, sir?" said one of the seamen to Eustace, who stood staring out to sea. "Yet I've seen some storms here too. It's a nasty bit of coast, with some ugly reefs about."

"Are there many wrecks here?" asked Eustace with interest.

"A goodish few," said the seaman; "but one doesn't look for them this kind of weather."

"No, of course not," said Eustace, with a great show of certainty, for he did not want the man to imagine he was scaring him.

Peter had been fairly irrepressible all day. He was always a fidget—made on springs, his father said—and the excitement carried him away entirely. He talked to every one indiscriminately, especially if they happened to be in uniform, and had no shyness in asking questions. He had a dozen friends in a very few hours. Afraid lest he should weary people, Mrs. Orban tried to keep him with her, and towards evening she said,—

"You might play with poor Becky a little, Peter. She will have to go to bed very soon, and I think it has been a duller day for her than for any one else."

Which was probably true, as Becky was too tiny to have the sustained interest in things the others had.

So Peter began a game of romps with Becky, which at first consisted of careering round and round and in and out between their mother's and aunt's chairs, Peter making the reiterated assertion, "I'll catch you, I'll catch you," Becky retorting with delighted chuckles, "Oo can't, oo can't!"

Mrs. Orban was just congratulating herself that Becky would be delightfully sleepy after the exercise, when the child made a sudden dive away from the chairs in her excitement, Peter behind her. The next minute she was rolling head over heels down the companion-ladder, down which it had evidently been her intention to go right side up, for a joke.

The yells that proceeded from the passage below assured every one that Becky was not killed; but when she was picked up it was discovered that one poor little wrist was terribly sprained. She must have fallen with it doubled under her. To put her to bed in such pain was out of the question; her mother's arms was the only place in which she could find any rest. So Mrs. Orban remained on deck in the cool with Miss Chase near her. The children's bedtime was quite forgotten; in fact, after the doctor had examined Becky and reported on her injuries, Nesta, Eustace, and Peter had disappeared—probably out of range of orders to go to bed. Their mother, when she gave them a thought, supposed them to be all together, and in her anxiety over Becky never realized how late it was getting.

It was quite dark. All the other children had disappeared. Most of the grown-ups who had begun the voyage together, and were friendly by now, were in the music-room below having a concert. The ship was utterly still but for the throb of the engines and the "swish" of the water as the bows cut through it. They were running at full speed, without a pitch or a roll, the sea as clear as glass, when all of a sudden there was an awful crash, and the boat shuddered from bow to stern.

In an instant the peaceful scene was changed to one of wildest confusion. There were cries of terror, hurried questions, rapid orders, the crew dashing hither and thither, and a stream of horror-stricken people began swarming up from below. It was awful, the intense darkness of the night adding to the confusion immeasurably.

"We've struck on a rock," Mrs. Orban heard some one say. "There isn't a minute to lose."

"Man the boats!" called a strident voice, and there was a running of ropes over pulleys, a creaking and a splashing not far away.

"Here you are, ma'am," a seaman said, taking her by the arm."Oh, the children!" said Mrs. Orban, holding back.

"We're here, mother," said Nesta's voice at her elbow.

"We'll see to them, ma'am," said the seaman; "you and the little one first."

He was almost rough in his kindness; and Mrs. Orban found herself swinging down into the boat below before she had time to make any protestations.

One after another, through pitch darkness into the only chance for safety, people were sent down. It was impossible to know who came—nothing could be seen or heard. The seamen above could not stop to pick and choose, but whoever they could lay hands on went.

Then came a hoarse cry—the boat was becoming overcrowded, the crew pushed off, and away they went with a bound at every stroke of the oars. To Mrs. Orban it was a hideous nightmare of awful anxiety. She could not tell whether all her children and her sister were with her or not. Her one ray of hope was that as they had apparently been all standing close together, the others must have been put in after her. But people had rushed so the moment they knew the boats were lowered, there was an awful possibility the children had been swept aside. They were certainly not near her, for she called their names and Dorothy's again and again, and there was no answer.

The men had not been rowing for seven minutes when there was a sudden awful sound behind them, and the boat plunged and rocked as if she were a living thing gone mad with terror."Oh, what was that?" Mrs. Orban cried, and the question ran from mouth to mouth.

"The ship," answered a solemn voice with a break in it; "she's gone under, poor thing. Must have been ripped from bows to stern."

The silence that followed was dreadful. How many boats had got away? Who was left on board? There was not one in the boat who had not a thought of agonized pity for the poor souls left behind.

It was so unexpected; every one was so unprepared. Who could suppose that with a sea as calm as a mill-pond a great vessel could strike on a rock and sink in less than seven minutes?

Afterwards, when the matter came to be investigated, it was discovered that the Cora had run on to a coral reef unmarked in the charts. Coral reefs form with extraordinary rapidity, and are infinitely dangerous, because they are so sharp as to cut like razors. The loss of the Cora was no one's fault; but that fact was of but little comfort to those whose friends went down in her.

The boat pulled steadily on awhile, then paused, for no one could be certain where she lay as regarded the shore.

"Easy, mates," said the man in command. "We must hang about till there's a gleam of light to give us our bearings, or we shall go down like that poor thing over there."

In the hush that fell it was possible to hear each other speak. People began to question who was in the boat with them.

"Eustace, Nesta, Peter, are you there?" cried Mrs. Orban."Yes, mother; yes, mother," she heard, and her heart bounded with thankfulness.

"And you, Dorothy?" she forced herself to say.

But to this there was no answer.

"Children," Mrs. Orban said, "isn't your aunt there?"

"I don't know," Eustace said; "she wouldn't come before us."

There could be no doubt that Miss Chase was not there.

The first streak of daylight fell upon a boatload of haggard men and women, afraid of, yet longing for, the day. It was discovered that they had come within half a mile of shore, and the crew pulled with a will till they beached the boat. One after another in the shadowy gloom the stiff, cramped figures landed. There were meetings, but no open rejoicings, because of those others left behind.

Eustace and Nesta clung to their mother, half sobbing.

"And Peter," she said—"where is Peter?"

"Peter?" said the other two blankly.

"I thought you said he was there?" said Mrs. Orban.

"We—we answered for ourselves," faltered Eustace. "I didn't notice he didn't speak."

The boat was empty now. Groups of shivering, unstrung people stood about, utterly incapable of thinking what to do next. But Peter was not there—nor was Dorothy.

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