ON his way back to the “Great Atlantic Hotel,” it came on to rain (it generally _does_ rain in Liverpool), and Wilfred, to escape a drenching, took his stand within the pretentious granite portal of the office of the “Flaming Star Line” Shipping Company. Presently, two ships’ Captains came out. “When do you sail, Captain Barlow?” said one. “In five minutes,” was the answer. “I ought to have been on board now, but I caught my steward in the act of helping himself to some loose money I had left on my cabin table, and I came ashore to see whether they knew of another at the office. But they don’t, which is awkward, considering the lot of passengers I have on board. What rascals men are now-a-days!” Wilfred turned to the speaker: “Will you try me, Sir?” said he. The Captain started, and looked at him fixedly. “Have you ever been afloat before?” he asked. “Never,” said Wilfred; “but I’ll try to do my duty, and make myself useful.” The Captain looked at him fixedly, and Wilfred returned his gaze. “I like your looks,” said Captain Barlow, “and I think I’ll engage you.” “More fool you!” interposed his friend. “What’s your name, boy?” “Smith,” answered Wilfred. “I’d ha’ gone bail his name was Smith,” said the Captain’s friend. “When can you come on board?” said Captain Barlow, without paying any attention to the interruption. “In ten minutes, Sir,” answered Wilfred; “my things are in the next street.” “Well, then, I’ll wait here ten minutes, and if you don’t turn up then, I’ll sail without you.” Wilfred was off like a shot, reached “the Great Atlantic,” discharged his small reckoning, and within the stipulated time was again at the Shipping Office, before the door of which--for it had now ceased raining--Captain Barlow was marching up and down like a bear in a cage. “This looks well,” said Captain Barlow, approvingly, as Wilfred presented himself with his small bag. “You must prove I’m not such a confounded fool as my friend Twagham thinks.” So Wilfred followed the Captain on board the good steamer “Flaming Comet,” and in an hour’s time the noble ship was out in the wide Mersey, and before evening was ploughing her stately way down channel on her way to the New World. It was a harsh, and in some respects a bitter discipline that to which the delicately-nurtured young man was subjected on his voyage out, but it probably served to strengthen and mature his already noble character, while the constant hard work incident to his position prevented his mind from repining and dwelling too much upon his sorrows. The first spare moment he had after he went on board, he opened the little package which was his sister’s parting gift. It contained a little Prayer Book, with a metal cross upon either side of the binding. As he opened the clasp, two papers fell out--the first was a £5 note, and his eyes filled with tears as he read upon the second, written in that beautiful handwriting he knew so well, Charles Kingsley’s beautiful “Farewell.”