What about that! Can you no mak him a grocer? or a haberdasher? or put him to some quiet decent business whare he could mak siller, big a house, marry a fine comely woman-for wad she no be proud to get him!—and then bring his bairns doon here, and gi'e them scons, and cruds and cream, and a' that's guid?"

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A grocer will never do for Ned, Babby."

Maybe no; he would be ower proud for that. I'm taking ower muckle on mysel', but ye will excuse me. It's a wonderfu' thing this pride! Ye dinna like your bairn to handle tea; but ye think-keep me !-that tar is nicer for his hauns. Ye object to saft sugar, but no to saut water. It's extraordinar, I do assure ye, to me. And then if he was a shopkeeper he couldna droon atween his house and the cross, and he micht be a bailie, or a provost, and-noo Mrs. Fleming, ye needna lauch at me, for I am certain I'm richt."

Then Babby, with a most insinuating expression, added, “For my sake, keep our ain Neddy in his auld nest."

CHAPTER V.-OLD CORDS SNAPPING.

But what was Ned himself doing all this while? From the moment that his going to sea was seriously entertained by him, it seemed to have added years to his age. He was getting very thoughtful and grave, whether from anxiety or sadness, no one could tell.

There was a favourite excursion of his which he used to take on play-days with his school companions, an hour's walk from the seaport, where a grand sea-beach of pearly sand stretched for miles, and received the ceaseless beat, and sometimes the awful dash and roar of the ocean's waves.

It was

a wild and desolate scene. The sand, beyond the hard brown floor on which the spent waves first broke, and up which they sent their thin films of water and hissing foam, was blown into Dunes, partially covered with coarse grass, and passing away into sandy pasture lands, overlooked by a range of rocky precipices which marked the original beach. A small cluster of fishermen's houses, and a boat or two hauled up on the sands, alone broke the line of the far-winding shore, while sea-ward all was blue to the horizon, except where a few scattered islands peered up in the middle distance. The island of his adventure was one of them.

Ned, with an irresistible impulse to be alone, had set off by himself to visit this solitary beach, and see the rollers driven in by some faroff storm. There they were, the tawny lions with their shaggy manes and curling paws, tearing the shore, and roaring against it in their fury! As Ned paced along the beach enjoying the majestic and solemn scene, he unexpectedly came upon a pale-faced lad, wrapped in a Highland plaid, who was reading a book in a sheltered corner near a large boulder. He soon recognised the face of a delicate boy who had several years ago left the

of, but whose nickname of Curly he well remembered. His real name was James Morris. "Hollo, Curly!" said Ned, "this cannot surely be you? What has come over you for such a long time? How are you? What on earth are you doing here?" and so, after a shower of such questions, he was seated beside Morris on the sand. He soon found that the boy had been long in bad health, and had come to live in one of the distant cottages, in the hope that fresh air and milk would benefit him. The lad was poor, and had no companions, but had imbibed an insatiable thirst for study, and managed somehow to attend Glasgow College for two sessions. His present reading was poetry, and of all poets-one at that time known only to comparatively few in the more distant provinces-Wordsworth. He was immersed in his favourite "Excursion" when Ned discovered him.

After some conversation, Ned was strangely fascinated by the gentle manners of Morris, the quiet affection in his speech, and by an elevation of thought which was like nothing he had ever met with before in any acquaintance. He told Curly all his plans, which were heard with great patience and interest; and one might fancy that his large, blue, expressive eyes, in the midst of his pale cheeks, were listening more than his muffled

up ears.

What a queer life you must lead, Curly! Are you not unhappy, old chap? What on earth can you do?"

"You know, Ned, I can't help it," said the boy with a sigh; "it's God's will."

“Oh, I didn't mean to blame you a bit,” replied Ned, who felt as if he had said something unkind.

"I know you didn't, Ned, but really I am very happy. I've lots to do. I keep the accounts of old Gilbert, the fisherman with whom I live; the accounts of all the fish he catches, and what he gets for them, and what he pays for rent, and for all he or his wife purchases in town; and I sometimes herd his cow (don't smile), until she and I are quite friends; and what splendid milk she has! Won't I give you such a drink! for you must come to the house."

"I tell you, Ned, you might as well ask me what are those waves about, or the sun, or the clouds, or yonder blue sky, or that angel of a lark! Poetry is about everything in us and around us ; about what the eye does not see, nor the ear hear, but what the heart feels and the soul rejoices in. Now, you old rascal, you are laughing at me! see you, you villain! But I tell you poetry is really a queer thing, like glorious dreams, and it makes me far better, and far happier." "Read me a bit, Curly, for fun."

"Fun! It's no fun. But here is a passage I was just reading, as you came to me, of what a herdsman like myself could feel :—

'O then what soul was his, when, on the tops
Of the high mountains, he beheld the sun
Rise up, and bathe the world in light! He looked –
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth
And ocean's liquid mass, beneath him lay

In gladness and deep joy. The clouds were touch'd,
And in their silent faces did he read
Unutterable love. Sound needed none,
Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank
The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form
All melted into him; they swallow'd up
His animal being; in them did he live,
And by them did he live: they were his life.
In such access of mind, in such high hour
Of visitation from the living God,
Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.
No thanks he breathed, he proffer'd no request;
Rapt into still communion that transcends
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,
His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power
That made him; it was blessedness and love!'

What say you to that?" said the boy, springing with enthusiasm to his feet.

"Well, you're an odd fellow, after all, Curly! But I feel there is some meaning in what you have read. It is just what one would like to say, if they could. But, heigh-ho! what has a Jack sailor to do with poetry? A bucket and tar; a marlingspike and a broken rope; a swab and wet decks; a forecastle and smoke; a caboose and scous; a gale of wind and reef topsails; a flapping sail and passing the gasket; a hurricane and leeshore, with all hands lost. That's all his poetry!" “Come, come, don't make it so very dark and prosy. Poetry is in the heart, Ned; and the heart can make poetry out of anything, just as the sun makes iron shine like silver. Now, look here. You think it strange that I should speak to you in this way. But it is seldom I meet any one I can open

"There's my hand to you, and I will pray for you here in this spot-on the sand. Yes, Ned,

I shall," said Morris, with his blue eyes moist like violets full of dew and sunlight.

"Are you serious, Curly? Do you mean to say actually that you will ever pray for me?"

"I do, Ned. Oh, my dear old chap, you don't know what a poor, weak, half-dying fellow like me learns. I am of little use, except, perhaps, to my friends yonder, and no one on earth cares for me, as mother, father, brothers and sisters are all dead, but it's worth being poor and sick, and able to do nothing, if we learn, Ned, that there is a God who loves us, and a Saviour who died for us, a Spirit that helps us to be good, and a Home where we will all meet at last! Now, Ned, that is not humbug, but truth, and I cannot help saying it to you, for I don't think I'll ever see you, old fellow, again, till we meet yonder," pointing upwards.

"Oh, Curly, I'm not so bad as to think that what you say is humbug, for I have always been taught it at home. But then you know yourself, that boys don't like to speak about such things, and as I said, it looks odd; yet it is not somehow odd in you, and should not be so, I daresay, in any of us. But I hope, Curly, we'll meet again; maybe I'll give you a voyage in my ship! Wouldn't that be first-rate? and you would be my chaplain. Hoorah! and get strong and healthy, and become a regular minister, for I'm sure that's to be your line."

"It's at all events my dream and my poetry. But a dream and poetry only. In the meantime let us off to Gilbert. I see my merman and mermaid at the boat, and it's time to get the cow in. Ha! there's poetry for you! a cowherd without a pound of money in his pocket, and hardly a pound of flesh on his bones, thinking of a pulpit! Yet

poor fishermen once became fishers of men. But come along, no more preaching. We have work on hand."

ending of the packing, and the feeling that the last stage of parting was drawing near.

The captain had great difficulty in reading the

"I never do, any more than the lark in the sky. But haste, or the evening will be on us. Look out, Ned! Aha, lad, there's a sight for you." And Morris directed Ned's attention to magnificent sunbeams, which poured themselves from behind a sombre cloud that shaded the sun, and lighted up with silver sheen the line of the horizon, bringing into view a ship with crowded sails in the distance.

"There she is, sir, exactly as Wordsworth hath it

'Like a ship some gentle day,

In sunshine sailing far away,

A lovely ship which hath the plain

Of ocean for her wide domain.

a solemn responsibility to keep their feelings down. Somehow, none in the household could go to bed. The Captain's step was heard pacing up and down his room; Babby was busy, she said, preparing breakfast; Mrs. Fleming was flitting about with noiseless step like a ghost; even Skye went creeping about the house, ascending and descending the stair with emphatic tread, his tail stiffly curled, practising short gruff barks, never heard at night before, as if he had unseen enemies to contend with, or some great work to do which he could not understand. Sometimes he lay beside Ned's trunk, with his ears cocked, clearing his throat, and giving sundry short, asthmatic coughs through his whiskers. Ned himself began, not to undress, but to dress about midnight; and, having done

Morris, clapping his shoulder, said playfully, "Do you cheer up, my hearty, and may you ever sail on in sunshine, till you reach the last harbour, where all is still."

That night in August that was to usher in the day of Ned's entrance upon busy life was a memorable night in the cottage! All his " traps" had been purchased; and the little room in which he had slept since his early boyhood was full of articles required for his sailor life;-the strong chest with rope handles; the hammock and bedding; the large leather sea-boots; the duck trousers, sou'wester, Guernsey frocks, etc.-all of which seemed already to speak of heavy seas, wet nights, cold watches, and strong gales. The outfit was being arranged under the superintendence of his mother and old Babby, accompanied by minute directions as to where each article was placed in the chest, and how it was to be taken care off.

"Noo, Maister Nedd," Babby would say, "yer no to pit on thae fine socks or stockings unless yer asked oot to your dinner."

"I asked out to dinner, Babby!" exclaimed Ned. "Do you think the mermaid would ask me? Asked out to dinner, indeed! No, no, Babby, my old girl, these times are past." "I'm no heedin' wha asks ye. A mermaid's invitation, if she's decent, is as gude as ony other bodie's. But dinna spoil yer fine things-that's a' I care aboot. Pit that comforter I made for you roon yer neck when it's cauld; and if ye were wise ye should hae an umbrella to keep off the saut water frae this coat. What for, ye cratur, are ye lauchin' at me? Gae wa wi' ye, and do what ye're bid. Wae's me," added Babby, with a sigh, "I wish ye were hame again! I tell ye that puir Skye hasna been the same dog ever since ye spoke o' gaun awa. Eh! he is a queer ane. There's no an elder or minister wi' mair sense! Could ye no tak' him wi' you? But maybe he wad be sick on the sea like me, puir thing." And so she would talk on, with apparent indifference, but no one saw the tears which streamed in secret from Babby's big eyes, nor heard her blowing her little round nose half the night.

But at last came the inexorable time, and the

dow looking out on the sea, that gleamed like a mirror beneath the autumnal moon.

Was

Then began to dawn upon him a strange feeling, as if all had been a dream till now! he actually going away? Was this his last night at home? And where was he sailing to? And what if he never saw father or mother more? I believe at that moment he would have felt it a most blessed deliverance could he have been 'prenticed to a shoemaker or tailor, or fixed to any employment which would keep him at home. All romance had fled, if it ever existed, and he felt as if he was doing something wicked. Morris, in the fisherman's cottage, seemed in Paradise!

The thought of Morris recalled their last conversation. "He said that he would pray for me," muttered Ned. "Why should I not do so now for myself, and for those I leave behind?" was the after reflection. And so, after a few minutes' silence, he quietly knelt down. For a while he could neither speak in prayer from lip or heart. A great agony of soul suddenly seized him, so that he almost fought with its violence. His calm and happy life, like a panorama, spread before him. His father and mother never seemed so loving and beautiful. Even old Babby appeared as if a saint's halo were round her head; and when, all unperceived by him, his very dog crept near, attracted by his convulsed sobbings, and licked his hand, it but intensified his emotion. At last he said to himself, as he dried his eyes, and thrust his blue handkerchief into his jacket pocket: "This is unmanly! I am ashamed of myself! It is like a lassie!" By degrees he became calm enough to pray in the sincerity of his soul, and rose in strength and peace.

Soon after a gentle tap at the door was followed by his mother appearing. She was peaceful as a summer morning. Sitting down beside her boy, she said, "Ned, dear, I know all that is passing in your mind, and you need not pain yourself by telling me about it. You and I shall have no sad farewells. We understand one another. I am

not going to give you any advices; for my years have been spent for you above all, except your father. You are choosing a profession with our full consent, because there is no other which

seems to suit so well. But Ned, dear, will you promise me just one thing; it is this, that you will, if at all possible, and unless storms or sterner duties interrupt you, every day read seriously a little, even a few verses of this Bible which I have bought for you, and in which I have written my name? and also that you will never, never--now Ned, darling, notice-never neglect prayer to God? Kiss me, dearest, and say yes; and should I never see you, nor hear of you more, my heart will have comfort that the Best of all heard you and taught you."

"I say yes, mother, with heart, soul, and strength," replied Ned, who never all his life was accustomed to express his feelings, but on this night he threw his arms round his mother's neck, and clung to her for a few minutes in silence. Their whole past life of great love seemed concentrated in these minutes.

The interview was at last disturbed by the entrance of the Captain. This is really too bad, my dear," he said, addressing his wife; "you will kill yourself with this work of packing. Ned, my boy, you must go to bed; the steamer does not sail till five o'clock. This will never do." In the meantime the Captain gave a sign to his wife to leave the room.

After she was gone, he said in an under-tone to Ned, "You know, lad, I have no present to give you."

"Present, father! you?"

"Of course, you did not expect any from me; though, by the way, I am proud of the many you have got. Let me see," and here the Captain enumerated: "A telescope from the Colonel, a small writing-desk from Dr. Yule, a nautical almanac from old Freeman, a parcel of useful medicines from Snodgrass. And now"

But here they were suddenly interrupted by Babby exclaiming, "Captain, Captain, and Mr. Ned, what are ye aboot?"

"Babby, go away; I say go, Babby."

"But I say no, Captain. It's unco daft o' you and Maister Ned to be clavering a' night like twa hoolets. The job's bad eneuch wi'oot a' this stramash. I maun sit up of course; but pity me, Captain, ye forget ye're an auld man? and ye maun ha'e sleep when ye're gaun awa' yersel'. Is that true?"

"Come, come, Babby, don't tell secrets."

But Ned had heard the unexpected news, and it lifted a great weight from off his heart, that his father was going with him. “Hurrah!” he said; 'you are a brave old officer, to think of it! I am glad. Hurrah, again I say, for hearts of oak!"

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"I am going, Neddy," said the Captain, smil ing; "I always intended to go, but was afraid your mother and Babby would hinder me. Your mother is admiral; Babby, commodore !"

"Me hinder you! That's a thocht, to be sure. Me!" ejaculated Babby, all the while inwardly chuckling at the admission.

"Yes, you. But in the meantime do go below, I have something to say to Ned."

Babby retired, saying, "I'll come back, mind, and send ye baith to bed."

The Captain then produced a huge red pocketbook, and, untying its tapes, from one of its re

cesses he slowly and reverently unfolded a bit of paper. Ned recognised it,-it had appeared on more than one of the Captain's battle-days,--but he pretended ignorance on the present occasion. "Ned, my boy, I mean to present you with my greatest treasure on earth. Look at that signature," he said, handing the slip of paper to his son, and looking at him over his gold spectacles in silence.

"Nelson!" said Ned; "and an order by him to you to make certain signals ?”

"Yes, Ned, an order, and to me, your father, and from himself! Now, Ned, I give it to you as my present, that as you look on it, in storm or sunshine, at home or abroad, you may remember that advice, England expects'-(the Captain rose to his feet)-'every man to do his duty,' and that you may never disgrace your old father by neglecting your duty." A brief silence ensued.

"Thank you, father! I will keep it as more precious than gold, for your sake; and whatever happens to me, I hope I will never disgrace you." Ned," continued the Captain, who, as he spoke, sometimes sat down and sometimes walked a few paces with his hands behind his back, "Ned, I never had learning; never could tell you many a thing that was passing in my heart; can't do it now. My words don't run through this block of a mouth. Something like a heavy sea stops me when I wish to sail a-head. But your mother knows all about it, and she has told you, no doubt, that- Here the Captain pointed upwards,— then taking a large pinch of snuff, turned his back to Ned. Bringing himself round again, face to face with his son, he said, Ned, you must be a better man than your father, for I never saw my father or mother. You must, Ned, do what your mother has taught you; not what I, not what I could teach you, though God knows how I love Him who died for us both, and how I love you, Ned!

'Father, dear," said Ned, "don't speak that way, for it makes me sorry, as if you were not as good a father as ever a fellow had. What did I ever see in you but good? What did I ever get from you but good?"

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'Do you say so, Ned? Do you believe that? Neddy, my boy, my only boy, my own, own son, I tell you-oh! I tell you-"

I know not what the Captain intended to tell his boy. I only know that, giving him a shake by the collar, and a hearty smack of a kiss on the cheek, he stumbled over sundry packages on the floor as he rapidly sought the door, and opening it, turned round, moved his head up and down with an expression of joy and love in his face not easily forgot, and saying, "God bless you! God bless you, my own boy!" he closed the door and descended to his room, until daybreak.

Soon, alas! too soon for all, followed the early morning which seemed so silent and clear, and felt so cold. Every inhabitant of the cottage went in procession to the old quay. How often had Ned fished from its weather-beaten stones? He was accompanied, early though it was, by a number of school-companions, and, strange to tell, was met by old Dr. Yule, who, as a compliment to his parents, and from love to himself, determined to