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After a while the girl placed her hand on her mother's. Oh, mother, and you are so happy. Do you not mind dying?"

"God's will is mine, dear child," she murmured, and then, still holding her daughter's hand, she slept, and so sleeping passed into rest.

Marion Carmichael told me all this with broken voice and eyes brimming with tears that were so heavy they would fall. With hushed tones and bent head I answered her, and such words as I could say to comfort her I said. Everything after her mother's death seemed dark and chaotic. For months she had watched beside her, scarcely leaving her for an hour; and now it was over, and blankness and desolation had set in. Marion's sweet, sad, young face grew very dear to me during those days in which she opened her heart to me, and made her troubles mine-a sense of protectorship came upon me, and a great longing to shield this young creature from further sorrow. What could I do? She was too young for me to ask her to be my wife, yet how else could I care for her? A compact of brotherhood was not to be thought of; the world would laugh at such folly, and condemn it—and I knew my feeling towards her was not a brotherly one. When we reached England she was going to school, and I should not be permitted to see her, nor even to write to her, and then any time her father might send for her to return to India, and she would pass for ever out of my life. The thought was distracting to me, and I grew restless and miserable; the days were slipping away so fast, one by one, and we

were nearing home. Actually we had well-nigh crossed the Atlantic, and Plymouth was our destination. Night was closing in, and still I was unable to solve the problem of how I was to manage to guard my little friend. Her soft small hand crept into mine as I stood in the dusk, looking out over the expanse of waters.

"Good night, Mr. Kenyon," she said, in a low voice; “I suppose this will be our last night together, so I want to thank you for all your kindness to me. I have been happier with you than I ever hoped to have been without dear mamma; you have been so good to me. And now, now we must part."

was near us.

I saw that there were tears glistening in the thick dark lashes. It was dusk, as I said before; no one How I longed to take the girl in my arms, and to kiss away all traces of her sorrow: to see the happy smile breaking over the expressive face! I knew how she would look at me. I thought I knew; but then again I might scare the child. I would not for all the world see her shrink back afraid of me. I knew I had become so much to her; I must not risk spoiling this last evening. These thoughts crowding upon my brain held me silent; her hand lay passively in mine still.

"Mr. Kenyon, I hope we shall meet again; oh, I hope so. Do you think we shall?" she asked, raising her moist eyes to mine.

"Yes, Marion," I replied, "I cannot lose you, child!” I drew her towards me gently, and she smiled up at me confidingly. "Will you always trust me as you do now, little one?" I asked. "Will you in years to come be as

ready to be friends, Marion? I should like to hear you say so on this our last night together."

She raised herself and regarded me keenly. "You do not doubt me, Mr. Kenyon, do you?"

Call me Charlie to-night, little one; it is my mother's name for me."

"Charlie," she said softly, while a smile settled upon her lips, and lit up her dark eyes. She held out her second hand to me and repeated her former question, "Do you doubt me, Charlie ?”

"No, thank God, I do not."

A large star shone out from the sombre sky and looked down upon us-there was only one. "See," she said, gently, "that is like you; my life was so very dark until you came like the stars into the black night. When you are away, I shall look up at their brightness and think of you, and when you see them perhaps you will remember too."

Perhaps I should remember! Could I ever forget? "Marion," I said, hurriedly, "Marion, it is getting too cold for you; run down to your cabin."

My heart was beating, and my breath came quick. I must send this innocent darling away. Her words wellnigh overthrew my resolution. I loved this child-woman -ah! how dearly.

"Good night, then, if I must go," she answered, sadly, yet lingered.

"Good night; may God bless you, little one. Marion dear, may I kiss you on this our last night?"

She uttered a glad sound, and raised her rosy lips to mine, and for that once I forgot that she was a child

and I her protector. She was to me then the woman I loved as she lay happily in my arms and nestled to my breast in the semi-darkness. A step came along the deck.

'It is the captain, dear; perhaps you had better go below now."

"Charlie," she whispered, "I was feeling so nervous to-night, I am glad you have kissed me. I shall think of it, and it will make me strong. Good night; and, oh! did you see? those were Mother Carey's chickens; and that is ill-luck! It has made me shiver.”

"Nonsense, child, there is no such thing as ill-luck. God bless you."

She looked white as she turned away and vanished from my sight.

"A pretty little lass," said the captain in my car, "and a good child too. She is very fond of you, Mr. Kenyon."

"She shall never regret it if she is," I replied, gravely. "Ay, ay, lad, that's right," answered the honest salt. “She was put into my charge, you see, and I like to know it's square and above-board."

We

But sleep

I grasped his hand, and he mine as though I had been secured by a vice. We then went down together to "drink the little gal's health," as he suggested. sat talking till late, and then I went to bed. would not come to me. I tossed from side to side restlessly, but it was of no use. I counted, and tried every means which we are told woos slumber. I even re-said my prayers, which hitherto I had found an unfailing specific in such a case. No; it was no good. So I got up and dressed myself, and went on deck.

CHAPTER VII.

THE PHANTOM SHIP.

It was a still night: the stars were hidden, and a leaden darkness hung heavily around. A sailor was standing upon the deck.

"A light," I said; "what can it be?"

"I don't see none, sir," answered the man with a yawn. "Maybe it's the Lizard; but we're many miles off yet, and my eyes won't carry that far."

"I cannot see it now-that's strange!" said I. Once more I thought I caught a glimmer, but again I lost it. A hazy fog seemed to be gathering wraith-like around. us, as a winding sheet, yet it could scarcely be called a fog, but it hung about us, and went with us like a shadow. We could not see ten yards ahead.

"What a strange atmosphere, captain!" I cried as he came on deck. "It does not add to the pleasantness of the night, and won't help us to descry Land's End at daybreak."

"It's clear enough there, I expect," he replied. "This is partial, we shall soon get out of it, and the first ray of sun will dispel it if we don't;" then suddenly, “Did you hear anything, Mr. Kenyon?"

I listened. 'Yes; it is a steamer somewhere."