"O doctor," said Tom anxiously, as his eyes sought those of Surgeon M'Hearty, "is there _no_ hope? Surely Jack will live?" "Jack's in God's good hands, lad," was the solemn reply, "and I am but his servant." The surgeon went slowly away, nor turned to look again. "Poor Jack! poor Jack!" cried Tom; "and on his birthday too!" He bent over the hardly breathing form, and tears welled through his fingers. He had never known till now how much he loved his shipmate. Would Jack die? His wounds were very grievous. "He is in God's good hands," the doctor had said. Tom Fairlie was a thorough English sailor--no better and no worse than the average. He attended church on Sunday, and was always on the quarter-deck when the bell rang for prayers; but the actual praying, I fear, he usually left to the parson himself. If asked, Tom would have told you that it was the parson's duty to make it all right with the Great Commander above in behalf of himself and shipmates; but now it occurred to Tom that he might himself personally address the Being in whose hands poor Jack lay. God was good. Dr. M'Hearty had said so, and the doctor knew almost everything. He hesitated for a few moments, though. It seemed like taking the parson's duty out of his hands. Was it impertinence? He looked at Jack's poor, white, still face--looked just once, then knelt and prayed--prayed a simple sailor's prayer that isn't to be found anywhere in a book, but may be none the less effectual on that account. When Tom rose from his knees Jack's eyes were open. "I've been sort of praying for you, Jack. I feel relieved. Seems to me the Great Commander is going to throw you a rope and pull you through the surf." Jack's lips were moving as if in feeble reply. But his mind was wandering. "The blue flower, Gerty--cull that. Oh, not the other! How dark it is! Gerty, I cannot find you. Dark, dark, dark!" And poor Jack relapsed once more into insensibility. [Illustration: "_I've been sort of praying for you, Jack._" Page 43.] CHAPTER V. "NOW THIS GOOD BLADE SHALL BE MY BRIDE." "The bosom in anguish will often be wrung That trusts to the words of a fair lady's tongue; But true are the tones of my own gallant steel-- They never betray, and they never conceal. I'll trust thee, my loved sword, wherever we be, For the clang of my sabre is music to me." QUARTER-MASTER ANDERSON. It was not until Sir Digby Auld had quite gone that Gerty came to her senses, and realized the position she had placed herself in. The comical side of the situation struck her at the same time, and for a few moments right merrily did she join the laugh with her old friend, Mr. Richards. But she grew suddenly serious next minute. "What have I done?" she cried; "and how _can_ I tell father?" "You droll, provoking little puss!" said Richards. "Come and sit on my knee here, as you always have done since you were a weary wee hop-of-my-thumb."