And truly the gale had lessened, but now the rain poured down.

"That is a blessing anyway," said Harty, "for we wanted fresh water."

The mate started, and the men looked at each other. This was the most dreadful blow of all. There was but one small jar of water in the boat. They spread their clothes to catch the rain as it fell; then they wrung out the water so obtained, and stored it for future use. The wind lessened; they were able to set a small sail, and so spare their arms from rowing. The next day one of the two poor sick fellows died, in the night the other followed. They were wrapped in an old sail, and launched into the sea. Night and day how they prayed to meet with a ship. The wind fell, the sky cleared. The sun shone, but alas! the food was nearly gone, and the water was dealt out in drops. And now, when all was so terrible, came even worse. One of the sailors found a bottle, with rum, in the boat. Reckless with despair, he drank largely of it, and became mad. He fought with his messmates, and in the struggle he fell with another into the sea, and both were drowned! There were now left in the boat only the mate, with another sailor, and the boy. Three biscuits remained, and but a pint of water. That night the sky was so blue, the stars shone out with such brightness, the sea stretched like a mirror all around. Not a sound, but the gentle lapping of the waters against the boat's side, was to be heard.

Suddenly a man's voice broke out into a hymn. It was strange, wild, but very sweet. It was the young sailor. When he ceased singing he began to talk in a low voice.

"We are near home now," he said, "I see them all; there is mother, and little Jane, and the old house. I

wish I had told them we were coming, but it's church time, and I know where-where-to-find."

The voice died away. All was still. Harty touched the mate upon the hand. The man whispered to him,

"He's wandering, poor fellow. He is going fast. He was a good lad, but he ran away from home. It has always preyed on his mind."

There was no more said. The poor young sailor ceased to breathe.

"He is better off," said the mate, as he laid a sail over the dead man.

Morning broke and found the boat motionless upon a sea like glass. The mate and Harty alone were now left.

The day passed on. The sun shone brightly. The night came and the moon rose. Both were too weak now to use an oar. The water was nearly finished; there remained one biscuit. They shared the half of this—they took each a spoonful of water. They sat and looked death in the face. When that biscuit and that drop of water were done, the end must come. Sometimes they spoke of their companions, and wondered if they had reached the islands. But speech soon became painful, and they ceased to talk. The mate managed to hoist a sail, and made shift to screen Harty from the sun's rays, which beat pitilessly upon them. The boy was thinkingthinking-how the end of all his wanderings was very near. That hour of ill-temper and disobedience, long ago, had led to a terrible termination.

We may imagine his thoughts!

The mate had long felt the sickness creeping over him from which the others had perished. But he made efforts to rouse himself, and to the last spoke cheerfully, for the

boy's sake. Now came a faintness creeping over Harty. He sank down against his companion, and his eyes closed. The mate looked down at the pale, shrunken face and white lips of the boy. He lifted him as well as he could

in his weak arms.
"Poor lad! poor
lad! He was a
brave fellow, and an
honourable one too.
He didn't deserve
to go like this."

Then the mate looked at the half biscuit and the drop of water.

"It's no good

sharing that morsel," he muttered. "It might keep the life in one of us, and one never knows what may happen." He stretched out his hand to the biscuit-then he hesitated.

"Life is sweet. I'd like to see my old place again. He is past suffering now! But there-there, didn't I swear I'd do him a good turn, and I will!"

The mate broke the biscuit and fed the boy, who ate it eagerly. Then he held the last drop of water to the poor white lips. Harty swallowed it.

"That's over!" muttered the mate. It was his last effort. He fell back. The insensible figure of the man, and the dying boy, lay in the boat, as it drifted silently on the sea that was smooth as glass.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"I SAW HIM DIE!"

WHEN Dolly hastened to her aunt's room, eager to tell her of the wonderful recovery of the musical box, she found Aunt Charlotte in a state of great excitement. Since her illness she had not come down to breakfast, and now Dolly found her dressing hurriedly, with the assistance of Mrs. McCurry. Indeed, that good woman could not move quickly enough, so great was the impatience of the lady. "What is it?" asked Dolly, quite forgetting her own news in seeing her aunt's eager hurry.

"Pranks is here!" exclaimed Aunt Charlotte, as she hastily buttoned her dress awry, and Mrs. McCurry in vain endeavoured to set it right.

"Pray

"Never mind! never mind!" cried the lady. give me my shoes and my cap! Oh! be quick, my dear! be quick!"

Dolly was hurrying with the shoes, the nurse with the cap. In her haste, it was a wonder Aunt Charlotte did not put the shoe on her head, or attempt fitting the cap on her foot.

"More haste worse speed," said the good-natured

woman who was assisting her. "You would be ready sooner, ma'am, if you would only let me."

"He has news of Harty!-news of our dear boy, my child!" said her aunt to Dolly.

"Good news, he hopes, miss!-at least he said he thought it would lead to something."

"Thank you! thank you!" cried poor Aunt Charlotte, in her haste snatching her apron, instead of a pockethandkerchief, which Mrs. McCurry was handing to her.

Away went Dolly, closely following her aunt. Sure enough, in their sitting-room, awaiting them, there was the pedlar, Peter Pranks. Bannock had found out his old friend, and sat in silent delight, with his head resting on Peter's knee, and lolling his tongue, foolish enough, at least in looks. In thought and deed a dog is wise at times. Pranks did not keep them long in suspense.

"The fact is, ma'am," he said, "it is a man I met with in Nettingly, where I came through, and, resting one evening at a bit of a public there, I heard some talk. It began about dogs." Peter stroked Bannock's head as he spoke.

"I told an anecdote or two of my own experience with the creatures, and that drew them out, and after a bit this man-he was a fisherman, as most of them were― began about a big black dog that had come to their village, followed him, he said, all of a sudden, and then disappeared as suddenly. From what he said, I guessed pretty surely it was Bannock."

The dog looked up quite knowingly in the old man's face, and began licking his hand, just as if to say, "Yes, that was I; all right."