the way, and she is sick at heart when she thinks that perhaps he may die among strangers before she can reach him.

She does not think of begging; but seeing the boy's eyes attracted to her, she makes him a curtsey, and he withdraws his hand and throws her down a sovereign. She looks at it with incredulous joy; and then she looks at him. "It's all right,” he says, and the coach starts again, while, full of gratitude, she hires a cart to take her across the country to the railway, that the next night she may sit by the bedside of her sick husband.

The midshipman knows nothing about that; and he never will do.

The passengers go on talking; the little midshipman has told them who he is, and where he is going—but there is one man who has never joined in the conversation: he is dark-looking and restless: he sits apart: he has seen the glitter of the falling coin, and now he watches the boy more narrowly than before. He is a strong man, resolute and determined: the boy with the pockets full of money will be no match for him. He has told the other passengers that his father's house is the parsonage at Y- the coach goes within five miles of it, and he means to get down at the nearest point, and walk, or rather run over to his home, through the great wood.

The man decides to get down too, and go through the wood: he will rob the little midshipman-perhaps, if he cries out or struggles, he will do worse. The boy, he thinks, will have no chance against him; it is quite impossible that he can escape: the way is lonely, and the sun will be down.

No. There seems indeed little chance of escape: the halffledged bird just fluttering down from its nest, has no more chance against the keen-eyed hawk, than the little light-hearted sailor boy will have against him.

And now they reach the village, where the boy is to alight. He wishes the other passengers "good evening,” and runs lightly down between the scattered houses. The man has got down also, and is following:

The path lies through the village churchyard; there is evening service, and the door is wide open, for it is warm. The little midshipman steals up to the porch, looks in and listens.

The clergyman has just risen from his knees in the pulpit, and is giving out his text. Thirteen months have passed since the boy was within a house of prayer; and a feeling of pleasure and awe induces him to stand still and listen.

"Are not two sparrows (he hears) sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not, therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.”

He hears the opening sentences of the sermon; and then he remembers his home, and comes softly out of the porch full of a calm and serious pleasure. The clergyman has reminded him of his father, and his careless heart is now filled with the echoes of his voice and of his prayers. He thinks on what the clergyman said, of the care of our Heavenly Father for us: he remembers how, when he left home, his father prayed that he might be preserved through every danger: he does not remember any particular danger that he has been exposed to, excepting in the great storm,—but he is grateful that he is come home in safety, and he hopes whenever he shall be in danger, which he supposes he shall be some day,-he hopes, that then the Providence of God will watch over him and protect him, And so he presses onward to the entrance of the wood.

The man is there before him. He has pushed himself into the thicket, and cut a heavy stake: he suffers the boy to go on before, and then he comes out, falls into the path and follows him.

It is too light at present for his deed of darkness, and too near the entrance of the wood, but he knows that shortly the path will branch off into two, and the right one for the boy to take will be dark and lonely.

But what prompts the little midshipman, when not fifty yards from the branching of the path, to break into a sudden run? It is not fear: he never dreams of danger. Some sudden impulse, or some wild wish for home, makes him dash off suddenly after his saunter, with a whoop and a bound. On he goes, as if running a race; the path bends, and the man loses sight of him. "But I shall have him yet," he thinks; "he cannot keep this pace up long."

The boy has nearly reached the place where the path divides,

when he puts up a young white owl that can scarcely fly, and it goes whirring along, close to the ground, before him. He gains upon it: another moment, and it will be his. Now it gets the start again; they come to the branching of the paths, and the bird goes down the wrong one. The temptation to follow it is too strong to be resisted: he knows that somewhere, deep in the wood, there is a cross track by which he can get into the path he has left: it is only to run a little faster and he shall be at home nearly as soon.

On he rushes the path takes a bend, and he is just out of sight when his pursuer comes where the paths divide. The boy had turned to the right; the man takes the left, and the faster they both run, the farther they are asunder.

The white owl still leads him on; the path gets darker and narrower at last he finds that he has missed it altogether, and his feet are on the soft ground. He flounders about among the trees and stumps, vexed with himself, and panting after his At last he hits upon another track, and pushes on as fast as he can. The ground begins sensibly to descend-he has lost his way-but he keeps bearing to the left; and though it is now dark, he thinks that he must reach the main path sooner or later.

race.

He does not know this part of the wood, but he runs on. 0 little midshipmen! why did you chase that owl? If you had kept in the path, with the dark man behind you, there was a chance that you might have outrun him; or, if he had overtaken you, some passing wayfarer might have heard your cries, and come to save you. Now you are running on straight to your death; for the forest water is deep and black at the bottom of this hill. O that the moon might come out and show it to you!

The moon is under a thick canopy of heavy black clouds; and there is not a star to glitter on the water and make it visible. The fern is soft under his feet as he runs and slips down the sloping hill. At last he strikes his foot against a stone, stumbles, and falls. Two minutes more, and he will roll into the black water.

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Heyday!" cries the boy, "what's this? O, how it tears my hands! Oh, this thorn-bush! Oh, my arms! I can't get

free!" He struggles and pants. "All this comes of leaving the path," he says; "I shouldn't have cared for rolling down if it hadn't been for this bush. The fern was soft enough. I'll never stray in a wood at night again. There, free at last! and my jacket nearly torn of my back!”

With a good deal of patience, and a great many scratches, he gets clear of the thorn which had arrested his progress, when his feet were within a yard of the water, manages to scramble up the bank, and makes the best of his way through the wood.

And now, as the clouds move slowly onward, the moon shows her face on the black surface of the water; and the little white owl comes and hoots, and flutters over it, like a wandering snowdrift. But the boy is deep in the wood again, and knows nothing of the danger he has escaped from.

All this time the dark passenger follows the main track, and believes that his prey is before him. At last he hears a crashing of dead boughs, and presently the little midshipman's voice, not fifty yards before him. Yes, it is too true; the boy is in the cross track. He will pass the cottage in the wood directly, and after that his pursurer will come upon him.

The boy bounds into the path; but, as he passes the cottage, he is so thirsty, and so hot, he thinks he must ask the inhabitants if they can sell him a glass of ale.

He enters without ceremony. "Ale ?" says the woodman, who is sitting at his supper, no, we have no ale; but perhaps my wife can give thee a drink of milk. Come in." So he comes in, and shuts the door; and, while he sits waiting for the milk, footsteps pass. They are the footsteps of his pursuer, who goes on with the stake in his hand, and is angry and impatient that he has not yet come up with him.

The woman goes to her little dairy for the milk, and the boy thinks she is a long time. He drinks it, thanks her, and takes his leave.

Fast and fast the man runs on; and as fast as he can, the boy runs after him. It is very dark, but there is a yellow streak in the sky, where the moon is ploughing up a furrowed mass of grey cloud, and one or two stars are blinking through the branches of the trees.

Fast the boy follows, and fast the man runs on, with his weapon in his hand. Suddenly he hears the joyous whoopnot before, but behind, him. He stops, and listens breathlessly. Yes, it is so. He pushes himself into the thicket, and raises his stake to strike when the boy shall pass.

On he comes, running lightly, with his hands in his pockets. A sound strikes at the same instant on the ears of both; and the boys turns back from the very jaws of death to listen. It is the sound of wheels, and it draws rapidly nearer. A man comes up, driving a little gig.

"Hilloa!" he says, in a loud cheerful voice. "What! benighted, youngster ?"

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"O, is it you, Mr. D. ?" says the boy; no, I am not benighted-or, at any rate, I know my way out of the wood." The man draws further back among the shrubs. Why, bless the boy," he hears the farmer say, "to think of our meeting in this way. The parson told me he was in hopes of seeing thee some day this week. I'll give thee a lift. This is a lone place to be in, this time o' night."

Lone," says the boy, laughing, "I don't mind that; and if you know the way, it's as safe as the quarter-deck."

So he gets into the farmer's gig, and is once more out of reach of the pursuer. But he knows that the farmer's house is a quarter of a mile nearer than the parsonage; and in that quarter of a mile there is still a chance of committing the robbery. He determines still to make the attempt, and cuts across the wood with such rapid strides that he reaches the farmer's gate just as the gig drives up to it.

Well, thank you, farmer," says the midshipman, as he prepares to get down.

"I wish you good night, gentlemen," says the man, when he passes.

"Good night, friend," the farmer replies. “I say, my boy, it's a dark night enough; but I have a mind to drive you on to the parsonage, and hear the rest of this long tale of yours about the sea serpent."

The little wheels go on again. They pass the man; and he stands still in the road to listen till the sound dies away. Then

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