It was the evening of the day after his attack, and he lay with his head on my lap, when the sufferer, after an unusually deep sleep of more than an hour, woke up, and faintly opening his eyes lifted them to me. It was a moment before he could recognize me, but then a grateful smile stole over his wan face. I saw at a glance that the fever had passed away, and I knew enough of the dying hour to know that this return of reason foreboded a speedy dissolution. He made an attempt to raise his hand to his face, but weakness prevented him. Knowing his wishes, I took my handkerchief and wiped the dampness from his brow. Again that sweet smile played on the face of the boy, and it seemed as if thenceforth the expression of his countenance had in it something not of earth. The hardy seamen saw it too, and leaned forward to look at him. “Thank you, Mr. Cavendish, thank you,” he said faintly, “I hope I haven’t troubled you—I feel better now—almost well enough to sit up.” “No—no, my poor boy,” I said, though my emotion almost choked me, “lie still—I can easily hold you. You have slept well?” “Oh! I have had such a sweet sleep, and it was full of happy dreams, though before that it seemed as if I was standing at my father’s dying bed, or saw my mother weeping as she wept the night I came away. And then,” and a melancholy shadow passed across his face as he spoke, “I thought that she cried more bitterly than ever, as if her very heart were breaking for some one who was dead—and it appears, too, as if I was that one,” he said, with child-like simplicity. Then for a moment he mused sadly, but suddenly said—“Do you think I am dying, sir?” The suddenness of the question startled me, and when I saw those large, clear eyes fixed on me, I was more embarrassed than ever. “I hope not,” I said brokenly. He shook his head, and again that melancholy shadow passed across his face, and he answered in a tone of grief that brought the tears into other eyes than mine, “I feel I am. Oh! my poor mother—my poor, poor widowed mother, who will care for you when I am gone?” “I will,” I said with emotion; “if God spares me to reach the land, I will seek her out, and tell her all about you—what a noble fellow you were—” “And—and,” and here a blush shot over his pale face, “will you see that she never wants—will you?” he continued eagerly. “I will,” said I, “rest easy on that point, my dear, noble boy.” “Aye! and while there’s a shot in the locker for Bill Seaton she shall never want,” said the topman, pressing in his own horny hand the more delicate one of the boy. “God bless you!” murmured the lad faintly, and he closed his eyes. For a moment there was silence, the hot tears falling on his face as I leaned over him. At length he looked up; a smile of joy was on his countenance, and his lips moved. I put my ear to them and listened.