hour, were breathing oaths and curses against the enemy, or blaspheming the hard fate which had cut them down in the full vigour of life and in the hour of victory.

Philip shuddered at the sight he beheld, and the sounds he heard, but with a keen and eager glance to the right and the left he quickly made his way among the dying and the dead, expecting in every face to recognise the well-known features of his friend. He began to think he had been misinformed, for nowhere could he discern Bob among the wounded, till, reaching the very furthest end of the cockpit, he perceived, in a corner, by the faint light of the lamp, a form which was just about Bob's size. Could this be he? He bent over him, his face was turned away; it was very pale and his eyes were closed. Yes, there was no doubt of it now. It was Bob, but whether alive or dead Philip

could not tell.

"Bob," he said to him in a low voice, "Bob, is it you?" The boy opened his eyes, and tried with difficulty to turn his head round towards Philip, then the reply came in a faint voice,

"O Philip, thank God that you have come. How did you find me out here ?”

"I searched the ship for you, Bob, as soon as the battle was over, and when I could not find you, I asked the sentry near where you were posted, and he told me that you had been wounded, so I hurried down here as fast as I could to look for you. But, tell me, are you very bad,

Bob?"

The

"Yes, I am done for, Philip, shot in the side. surgeon has just been to me. The ball can't be extracted, and he says it's only a question of an hour or so."

"O Bob!" replied Philip with a burst of anguish. "It can't be true, the surgeon has made a mistake,—they do sometimes, it mayn't be so bad as you think."

"No hope, Phil," he replied in an utterly despairing and very faint tone. "No hope. Oh, my poor mother! I shall never see her again; how she will fret, for I am her only child, torn away from her, too, without even saying farewell, or asking her pardon for all my undutiful conduct. We've won the victory, Phil, haven't we? ah! I'm glad of that; and you'll tell mother about me, and ask her to forgive me the trouble I've given her. And, Philip, you'll forgive me too, won't you?'

"

"Forgive you, Bob? I've nothing to forgive," said Philip.

"Nothing, Phil? Not for joining in that wicked plot with Dick and Nichols and the rest, to get you pressed, just to spite your father and the parson?"

"Don't talk of that, Bob. I've forgotten your share in it long ago. You were over persuaded by the others; don't think of it again."

"Ah, Phil," he sighed, "it can't last much longer now, I feel weaker every minute. I'm going to die, and what'll become of my soul? I've been a bad lad, Philip, not good and steady like you."

"Don't call me good, Bob, I've been anything but that. But think of Jesus Who died for you, He's waiting for you above, and if you believe in Him, and trust Him, you will go to a happier and a better place."

"He won't have me, Phil. I've not served Him as you have. I've told lies, and sworn, and done many bad things beside. I used to laugh at the parson down at Sennen, and never went to church except that once.'

"That may be, Bob, but if you're only sorry for your sins, as our parson's often told me, and as it says here in this Testament, God will forgive you for Jesus Christ's sake. Did you never hear the story of the thief on the cross? " "I don't recollect as ever I did."

"I'll just read it to you, then," said Philip; and he took out his Testament and read slowly and earnestly that beautiful and touching story. The tears rolled down Bob's pale cheeks. "Now, Bob," he said, when he had finished, "think that the Lord Jesus is saying those words to you, 'To-day shalt thou be with Me in paradise.""

"Raise me up a little, Phil; I feel that I'm choking," said the poor boy, a cold perspiration coming over his forehead. "Thank you," he added, in broken accents; "that is more comfortable. Now, I shall die in your arms. Yes, it is quite true what you say. Jesus loved sinners and gave Himself for them. So, perhaps He'll save me like that poor thief. Read some more, please."

Philip found the 15th chapter of St. Luke, and read the parable of the prodigal son, that wonderful story of Our Father's love, which has cheered so many sin-burdened and desponding souls.

Eagerly did the dying sailor-lad drink in every word as

it fell from his friend's lips; he felt that even for him there was hope of another life in the world to come.

When he had finished, he said-"Were not those the words the parson began the service with that day, Phil? 'I will arise and go to my father.'' "Yes, Bob, that's right."

Good-bye,

"That's what I want to do now, Phil, to arise and go to the Father in Heaven as you've told me of. Phil," he murmured after a pause. and tell her-Lord, remember me".

You'll see my mother,

He did not finish the sentence. His spirit-may we not hope had already passed into Paradise.

For some time Philip sat by the side of the earthly remains of his departed friend, his face buried in his hands, and quite absorbed by his grief. The death of poor Bob was a terrible blow. He had been the only link which bound Philip to his home, the sole friend he possessed on board that crowded ship. Henceforth he must bear his burdens, his sorrow, his home-sickness, alone; he would not again be cheered by Bob's kindly face and hearty good-natured sympathy. His lot was a harder one than ever now; how could he bear it?

He was roused from the stupor of his grief by the rough. voice of one of the petty officers.

"What are you after down here, my lad?" he exclaimed, as he observed Philip sitting in the corner of the cockpit; "go aloft and join your watch at once. What's all this snivelling and drivelling about? oh, I see !" he continued, as he observed Bob's lifeless body, "been attending to a friend who won't give you any more trouble, plain enough, so don't loiter here any longer, d'ye hear?

Philip knew he must obey. He took one last parting look at Bob's beloved features, calm and placid in death, and making a desperate effort to stifle his grief, returned to the deck and to his ordinary duty.

A still, starlight night succeeded that eventful day—a sad and memorable one it had been to Philip; for the first time he had witnessed and taken part in an engagement, and beheld the pomp and glory, as well as the horrors of war.

And now that the din of battle was over, and the traces of carnage banished from the deck, Philip stood at his post on the forecastle, and gazed up at the bright stars, and

listened to the sea gently rippling round the keel, and reviewed in the stillness the events of the day. All did not appear so dark to him now; he seemed to see God's purpose in allowing him and his comrades to be torn away from friends and home. Had Bob remained at Sennen among his bad associates, he would probably have become more and more like them, and been hardened in sin and wickedness; but the sudden trial had softened his heart, causing him, while on board the man-of-war, to show not only a brave spirit, but an inclination to listen to better things. It seemed to dawn upon him now, that Bob and he had been thrown together on board that ship, that he might be the means of leading his friend back to the Father from Whom he had wandered, and pointing him at his last hour to Him who saith, "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." And in all the dangers of the day God had protected him; His Fatherly hand had been outstretched to guard and shelter him from the enemy's fire. The words of the psalm, the last he had heard sung in the little village church at home, came back now forcibly to his mind, and he felt how truly they had hitherto been fulfilled in his case.

"At home, abroad, in peace, in war,

Thy God shall thee defend;

Conduct thee through life's pilgrimage
Safe to thy journey's end."

At dawn of day the bodies of those who had fallen, gloriously fighting for their country in the famous battle of the first of June, were with full honours committed to the deep. Among these departed heroes was Bob. When the solemn words were spoken, and the sea received those mortal remains "to keep till the day when she shall give up her dead," Philip could not restrain his tears. To him the separation and the loss were bitter indeed; but he cheered himself with the thought of the happiness and rest his friend was now enjoying, in that Paradise into which he felt assured that he had entered.

CHAPTER X.

THE FIRST WATCHER ON THE LONGSHIPS.

"The startled waves leap over it; the storm
Smites it with all the scourges of the rain;
And steadily against its solid form
Press the great shoulders of the hurricane."

-LONGFELLOW.

THE long, bright summer was drawing to an end, the days were gradually closing in. Autumn, with its gloomy skies, its dense fogs, and furious equinoctial gales, was nigh at hand. The lighthouse on the Longships Rock was all but completed, a fine summer having favoured the workmen. Mr. Smith, who supplied the means, had, at the urgent entreaty of Arthur Pendrean, vigorously pressed on the work, in the hope that ere winter and dark nights set in, a warning light might send forth its friendly beams to the mariner, pointing out the maze of treacherous rocks which girded that rugged coast.

One beautiful September afternoon, just before the sun sank in all his glory of gold and crimson into the sparkling sea, Arthur Pendrean stood alone at the extreme point of the Land's End, and gazed with mingled feelings of pride and gratitude at the slender column of strong granite masonry which, about two miles distant, rose a solitary object in the midst of the green waters.

Proud, indeed, the young parson might be of this structure, for it was mainly owing to his own perseverance and indomitable energy that it had been raised. The scheme had been in his mind for years; he had been baffled and opposed in every way; but now, at last, he had gained his object. But in his pride and pleasure he did not forget to thank Him, without Whose aid and gracious permission not a stone