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It was an old, well-worn Testament. On the title-page was the inscription “M. Janeway to I. Waddy.” It was very touching to think of this drowning man clinging to the last to this emblem of his religion, and perhaps token of an early love. No doubt it was in sympathy with some such thought as this that Miss Sullivan’s hands began suddenly to tremble, and her eyes to fill with tears as she turned over the sacred pages.

The book opened naturally in her hand at a familiar passage; she read a few lines; then the hot tears blinded her and she put the book hastily away.

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IN the morning Mr. Waddy awaked, and, looking feebly around, discovered Mrs. Dempster.

“Where is the other?” he asked, half rising and falling back disappointed.

Mrs. Dempster called her daughter.

Miranda came, splendidly fresh from her morning’s duties in full air, and her tawny locks shaken about in dishevelled luxuriance.

“Not you,” said Mr. Waddy, shrinking a little from her lioness aspect. “I want the other. She had a tarpaulin and yellow canvas clothes the first time, and then I saw her again here—I am sure it was here. Here! Where am I?”