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Everyone drew a deep breath, and from the most callous and hardened heart present went up a prayer of thanksgiving for their unexpected deliverance from death.

Fred seated himself, and throwing off the quilt in which he had enveloped the slender form of the young girl, began to chafe her cold hands and temples.

"Had this young lady no friends on board, that she was thus forgotten," he asked, turning to one of the crew of the Englishman.

"No, sir; not when the vessel caught fire. She was returning from England with her uncle; and one stormy night, about a week ago, he was washed overboard and lost. She never came up to the deck after that; and, in the hurry and fright, when the ship was found to be on fire, we forgot all about her."

"Is she an American?" asked Fred, looking, with a feeling for which he could not account, on the fair face and graceful form lying so still and lifeless in his arms.

"Don't know I'm sure," replied the man.

All Fred's efforts to restore her to consciousness were in vain. She lay, in her snowy drapery, so still, that he most feared life was extinct. A snow-wreath was not more white than the colorless face, off which the bright hair fell over the young man's arm, on which the head reclined. The tiny hands imprisoned in his were cold and lifeless as marble.