The singing came from the cabin. The man who was giving the song in a full, manly voice, was so near to my berth that I could have reached out and placed my hand upon his shoulder. The chorus of his song went to my heart; and I afterward learned that the young man had not been invited to sing, but had been seized with a sudden impulse, unaccountable even to himself. To this hour I have treasured in my recollection the comforting words of that chorus. They were: "Never, boys, give way to sorrow, But be up and act like men! Look with hope for joys to-morrow-- Sunny days shall come again!" When again I fell asleep I was comparatively happy. The following morning when I awoke I was well, except for great weakness. Many hours subsequently, while I lay wide-awake and comfortable in my berth--lulled by the swirl of waters against the ship--I saw, standing on a step-ladder by the side of my berth and looking down upon me, a little old lady. She was short and stout, and pleasant-looking. Her eyes gleamed with kindness, and she smiled in a most friendly fashion. How she came there I knew not, but she seemed to feel perfectly at home. When my eyes met hers, she began to nod at me. She continued her droll recognition for several moments, and then she spoke in a jolly tone: "I know you; I know you! And you shall know me when we meet again." Then she disappeared as suddenly as she had come. But her face and figure, her smile and twinkling eyes, and her good-natured voice remained long with me as a pleasant memory. Before I had been a very long time in New Zealand, I saw her again; but this next time her presence was more than a fleeting fancy. At ten o'clock on Tuesday morning we sighted New Zealand. At eight o'clock that night we arrived at the port of Wellington. It was in the ordinary time of the steamer that we should leave at four o'clock the next morning on the voyage across Cook's Strait to Littleton, my destination--175 miles distant. Instead, however, of our getting away Wednesday morning at four o'clock, at that hour a furious gale was coming up the strait. So terrific was its power that the captain could not entertain the thought of going out of port; so we remained over twenty-six hours, and left Wellington at six o'clock on Thursday morning. On Friday morning, about six o'clock, we reached Port Littleton, from which place I had learned that a train started for Christchurch, on the way to Rangiora, an hour later. It was my intention to go on shore with my luggage and take a seat in this train before seven o'clock. But, as I was about to set foot upon the gangway, I felt a sudden prompting, as distinct as if it were a voice, speaking to me: "Don't go ashore now. You must wait for a time." I learned that another train would leave during the morning, and then I went back into the cabin with my luggage and remained nearly an hour. While waiting I seemed to hear a voice as of someone speaking behind me: