take it as a hint that I have said enough, I suppose. So I'll just wish you all a merry Christmas once more, and pass it round.'

Whereupon Lieutenant Sherlock raised the bowl to his lips, and drinking off a deep draught, passed it round in due course-first to the ladies, then to his son, and so on to the six bronze-faced seamen who sat as guests at his board. Of course Aunt Laurinda could not let the bowl pass without uttering a sentiment over it, and shedding a tear or two, which she did with such vehemence that, at the very first sip of the hot and potent beverage, she was seized with choking, and obliged to retire into the back kitchen, where Saphira had to administer cold water and slaps on the back before she could recover herself.

When the excitement this little scene had created had subsided, one of the coast-guardsmen, Griffiths by name (a short man with a voice so gruff as to be almost a growl), got upon his legs, after a considerable amount of nudging from his companions, and started to make a speech. Staring very hard at the stuffed chine, and coughing a bass cough behind the back of his hand, he began as follows:

'Sur, it being the wish of my mates here present, and being likewise the oldest man on this station, which I've been twenty years in the sarvice, and my father thirty afore me, as you're aware-rising, as I say, to wish you and your family here present, which we do wish, and hearty too, and feels the honour of their company.'-(Here feeling himself getting rather astray, Griffiths paused and looked hard at the bow on Miss Laurinda's cap.) For, sur, we all knows that good officers makes good men, and—and' (coughing and getting a little more astray here)—

we wish, sur, to do by you as you do by us; and when a man wishes to what is right, he can't be far wrong say I, which was true of Jim Anson, if of anybody, as you're all aware of. For when I says to him, says I,

66

Jim, you'll never weather it my lad;" says he, "Give me the ropend, mate; I'm bound for the brig

or for kingdom come;" and jumps smack in, and swims off to the poor souls, though they was fools to run in so close, with the wind nor'-east by east; and if a man is a Grimsby chap, and don't know his chart, why he oughtn't to be trusted wi' a vessel say I; for you know well enough, Mr. Martin' (turning to the young seaman, with a colloquial air), 'that if the skipper is out in his reckonings' (Here a nudge and a whisper from his neighbour warned him to lay to'-a direction that only added to Mr. Griffiths's bewilderment), 'why, then, you see, as how you can't-that is I mean, sur, as how-as how it's my wish, and it's the wish of the company here present' (Griffiths suddenly stopped, gasped hard, and then blurted out) 'to-to drink your wery good 'ealth and 'appiness, and wish you many of 'em, as we hearty do and ever will.'

With which John Griffiths plumped himself down in his seat, and stared at the kitchen clock for five minutes, as though on the point of a fit, while his comrades thumped the table and cried 'hear hear,' till the crockery jingled again on the shelves.

After the toasts followed songs, in which the Lieutenant and his children joined, for they were a musical family, and knew what they were about in the matter of ballads and glees. Miss Mary led the way with 'Wapping Old Stairs,' (by request)-which she sang in a manner that would have roused the enthusiasm of critics had there been any present, and of course delighted her audience immensely. Then Martin volunteered a song all about somebody's 'blue eyes, and a heart that never changed," which had often been admired in nautical circles, and no doubt would have been equally approved to-night, only he couldn't remember more than two verses out of the ten, which of course somewhat marred its success. This was made up for, however, by an offer on the Lieutenant's part to sing 'The Death of Nelson,' which he did with a fine voice, and in a very manly style, causing Miss Laurinda to retreat once more into

the back kitchen, overpowered by emotion. Encouraged by the persuasions of his officer, one of the men next' ventured on a song. Singing was Dixon's forte; and when the big fellow cleared his throat and stood up, the eyes of his comrades were turned on him as with evident expectation. Whether it was that Mr. Dixon was not in his usual voice to-night, or that he was a little embarrassed before his audience, is not certain, but his singing sounded very much like talking in a minor key to the uninitiated ear. melody was so abstruse that Mary could never fairly catch it. The burden of the song seemed to be

The

So, he said, my dear love, will you tr-ew and faithful be?

which was repeated over and over again in the most doleful way, followed by a sort of dirge-like chorus (in which the men joined), to the effect that

He was buried in the deep, deep sea-ee. But the satisfaction that this idea seemed to impart to the nautical mind was immense.

It was pleasant to witness the footing on which all parties met, and the good understanding that existed between Lieutenant Sherlock and his men. He knew how to make them feel at ease without losing a fraction of his own dignity. Though there was an absence of restraint on the part of the guests, and every man present knew he was right welcome, the relative position of the entertainer and the entertained was never forgotten for a moment. The manners of the host had relaxed something of their usual stiffness and severity, but he was still their officer, and the distinction was never lost sight of by either party. When the pipes and grog made their appearance the ladies retired. For an hour or more the Lieutenant and his son sat and smoked with his guests, who listened to Mr. Martin's' pleasant talk of his late voyages with much interest, joining in the conversation intelligently enough. Shortly before midnight the party broke up, the men first drinking the health of the

VOL. LXIX. NO. CCCCXIV.

family, with three cheers, and wishing the Lieutenant and Mr. Martin all prosperity for the coming year. Then they took their leave orderly and soberly as when they arrived; for had any man forgotten himself and indulged too freely in his host's strong drinks, he would not have been invited to that table a second time. Lieutenant Sherlock not only set an example of strict sobriety himself, but he required and exacted it in his men. On all questions of discipline he was severe; but of drunkenness he was intolerant: that vice he never overlooked, never made allowances for-no matter who the offender might be.

Ere the kitchen clock struck twelve, the coast-guardsmen had all taken their departure, and the Lieutenant and his son were left alone. For a few minutes they sat talking together by the hearth. But Martin was tired out with his long journey, and yawned, and could scarcely keep his eyes open. Seeing this, the Lieutenant took up one of the candles from the table, and handing it to his son, said,

'Be off to bed, my lad; you're half asleep already. We'll talk matters over to morrow.' And all further inquiries concerning his son's affairs were postponed till the morning.

The father and son shook hands and parted-Martin to go blundering up-stairs to his chamber, with his rolling sea-gait, yet unused to steady ground, and the Lieutenant to make the tour of the house and inspect the locks and windows ere he retired for the night.

But when the Lieutenant had gone round and seen that all} was safe, he did not proceed to his own room, but sat down before the kitchen fire, and remained there some half hour or more in a brown study. And as he sat there gazing at the dying fire, he seemed to grow older and sterner of face every minute. His brows became knitted into a dark line, and the furrows deepened round his mouth. He sat there until the fire went out, and the candle burnt low in the socket; then, rising up with a start as the clock struck one, he drew off his

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shoes and quietly ascended the staircase to his own room. Arrived there, he did not go to bed; he sat down on the edge of the bed with the same look upon his face. After a time he rose, and took from an old wardrobe a stout pilot jacket and a sou'-wester. These he put on, and then opened the door of the chamber, and stood listening on the threshold, as though to ascertain whether there was any one still awake or moving in the house. All was still; the only sound was the kitchen clock ticking loudly in the dark, and the heavy breathing of his son in the next room. After listening a few moments, the Lieutenant closed his door, locked it behind him, and stole noiselessly down stairs again. With cautious steps he entered the parlour, proceeded to unlock the old-fashioned bureau that stood in one corner, and took from thence a brace of pistols and a boatswain's whistle fastened to a chain. That done, he blew out the light, groped his way into the kitchen, unbarred the door that led into the yard, and issued out of the house, locking the door after him and putting the key in his pocket. All this he did in a methodical deliberate way, that showed he was going through some familiar course of proceeding.

As Lieutenant Sherlock stepped

out of the house into the cold black night, he stopped a moment to look up at the windows, to see that no light still burned within doors. All was dark and silent, within and without. The only sound that reached his ear was the noise of the waves on the other side of the bank, breaking on the beach in the dark. But that sound never ceased there. Day and night, in storm or calm, the surge of rising or falling tides rose up from the adjoining shore. Even on still summer's nights, when a hot silence lay over the neighbouring fields from sunset to dawn, if a window in Lieutenant Sherlock's house were opened, you could hear the sea breathing heavily in its sleep.

There was no wind to-night; but a recent storm had left a strong swell, and the breakers were rolling in with dull heavy roars. It was

bitingly cold and very dark—so dark that the very blackness with which you were enveloped made your eyes ache. You could not see a yard before you. Not a star was visible, nor was there any break or variation of shade in the dense impenetrable pall overhead.

Walking straight through the dark, like a man that knew his way and could find it blindfolded, Lieutenant Sherlock proceeded down the sandy road in the direction of the sea-bank. He passed by the coastguard station, and made his way through the road cut in the sandbank out on to the beach. It was, perhaps, a trifle lighter there than on the land side of the bank, for there was neither house, tree, nor elevation; and now and then, when a great breaker heaved over in a mass of foam, a streak of something white was dimly visible. But he who did not know his ground well along the shore, would have found it impossible to walk a hundred yards in safety to-night.

Keeping close in-land, under lee of the high sand-bank beside him, the Lieutenant turned his steps in a northward direction. At a steady but slow rate (for the light, soft sand rendered quick walking impossible), he continued his way along the coast for some two miles or more, always enveloped in the same darkness, always accompanied by the same roar of waves breaking close by. Only once he halted; when suddenly he found himself close upon a figure that seemed to have emerged instantaneously from the night. The click of a pistol followed, and a voice asking him who he was and what he did there. It was one of his own men, on duty. A recognition ensued, and they each went their way again; for Lieutenant Sherlock was not unused to turn out at night to see that the men who patrolled the coast were at their posts; so his appearance at this hour caused no comment. had proceeded about a mile further, when he stopped, and, leaving the shore, climbed the sea-bank on his left.

He

The spot he had reached was called Gibbet Point-a wild and

gloomy place, where the sands gradually merged into a sort of marine marsh, and a chaos of mud, water, samphire and sea-weed stretched for three or four miles along the coast. The features of the place were hidden at this hour; but, by daylight, even when the sun shone at its brightest, it had a nightmare look, and was sure to haunt you in your dreams, after you had once seen it. It derived its name from a tradition that some malefactor (a pirate, it was said, who had murdered three men and buried them in the neighbouring sand-hills), had been gibbeted there. In support of the tradition there was nothing to show but a thick post stuck in the sand, that looked like a tree-stump; but every one accepted it as the remains of the original gibbet, and regarded it as an unanswerable proof of the truth of the story. From this point, where Lieutenant Sherlock now stood, a light was visible a little further in advance-a dim, flickering light, that looked like some willo'-the-wisp from the marshes below. But it was stationary, and too high above the soil for that. It might be -it was a signal that Lieutenant Sherlock understood, and that he sought, apparently; for no sooner did it meet his eye than he made his way towards it at once, keeping along the ridge of the sand-hills, which here were low and uneven, and, a little further on, sank down and disappeared altogether in the marsh.

The light grew bigger as he advanced, and gradually disclosed the window in which it burned -a closely-barred, grated window, across which moved the shadow of a figure, pacing to and fro without cessation. A few steps further on, and a black mass, as of a house or block of buildings, loomed close upon him. He was within a few yards of the building, when there issued from its walls a terrible sound. It was a wild, despairing cry-half human, half like the yell of some beast in pain. It was followed by a wailing and sobbing, as of a man weeping passionately and without restraint-more terrible this even than the cry.

Lieutenant Sherlock stood and listened, and, taking off his hat, wiped his brow and shivered. There was silence again; and then, after a pause, came the scraping of a violin, and a hoarse, hilarious voice roaring out The Battle of the Baltic,' with infinite gusto.

Lieutenant Sherlock drew closer to the window and listened. Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line;

It was ten of April morn by the chime, sang the voice, boisterously, beating time on the floor with what sounded like a wooden leg. Then the voice stopped again, and the violin went on with the melody alone, scraping and groaning away in the dreariest fashion. Every now and then the music would be interrupted by one of those wild and mournful cries that seemed to shake the very windows of the house. After a pause, the singer would break out afresh, stopping from time to time, it seemed, to remonstrate with the interrupter. The song proceeded in snatches, thus

There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.

'Come, can't yer hold that noise, and get a bit o' sleep? It's a nice way of spending Christmas-eve, chafing up and down a room all night long. Come, lie down awhile and rest yourself,

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave:

which, if you hadn't got a steam leg, you couldn't never keep on at it like that, back'ards and for'ards like a polar bear, sixteen times a minute.

'Hearts of oak! our captain cried, while each gun

Spread a death-shade round the ships. No, I'm out. There's something about "adamantle lips," but I'm blowed if these screechings don't drive all the portry clean out of my old head. Let's try again; and just you keep quiet till chorus time, there's a fine fellow.'

But the further progress of the

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song was here interrupted by the Lieutenant himself. Putting the whistle to his lips, he blew upon it twice,-first softly, then louder, and with a peculiar shake at the close. The signal was quickly answered. A window opened overhead, and a weather-beaten face peered out into the night. The face, which, amongst other peculiarities, had that of having no nose, was surmounted by a glazed hat, on which the light in the window-sill shone, and revealed the word 'Vengeance,' in letters half effaced, inscribed round the brim.

'Is that you, Captain?' whispered a gruff voice. All right. I'll be down directly.'

The next moment the window was closed, the light removed, and the heavy stumping of a wooden leg was heard on the staircase. There

was a short interval of drawing bolts and bars, and then the door opened, and Lieutenant Sherlock stood face to face with a stout old seaman, with a bald head, one leg, and not a vestige of a nose.

A bad night, Bunner, I'm afraid?'

inquired the Lieutenant, in a low voice.

'Uncommon bad, sir,' was the

reply.

'Restless, eh?' continued the Lieutenant.

'You'd say so, Cap'en, if you had ha' heerd the way we've been a goin' on. A pretty noise we've been a makin'. Woke up, about bedtime, worse than usual, and been rampaging ever since. It's very well we've got this end o' the shore all to ourselves, or we'd be informed against by the neighbours, as sure as we're alive, for disturbin' the peace.'

The old sailor took up the light, which he had placed at the foot of the staircase, stood on one side to let the Lieutenant pass in, and then bolted and barred the door after him as before.

'Upstairs, sir?' asked the seaman. Lieutenant Sherlock nodded his head in reply, and, preceded by the old sailor, who stumped on before him, light in hand, followed up the rickety staircase to a chamber on the first floor.