“Yes--yes! I think this sometimes!” cried Holdsworth passionately. “_That_ is the haunting thought--but it may not be! Oh, sir, it _cannot_ be! Were there dear ones belonging to me, _could_ my memory forget them? Could they be _very_ dear to me, and be forgotten?” Mr. Sherman drew a deep breath, and said, “No, I believe that would be impossible. If love united you to any person at your home, that love would be an instinct to prompt you with an influence that should have no reference to memory. But the mind of man is a great mystery.” There was a short silence, and then Mr. Sherman asked: “Do you ever dream?” “No.” “But you may dream, though your mind cannot retain the impression of its dreams. Could you awaken from a dream of home, your darkness might be made light.” “I have thought of that,” answered Holdsworth, with the air of a man who, having exhausted speculation, can find no inspiration in any kind of suggestion. “And you have no inclination to return to England?” “It cannot matter where I am whilst my memory remains dead. England! You speak a familiar word, and I know it is a country, but I cannot bend my mind back to it. It gives me no ideas. I stretch my thoughts over the great waste of waters we have traversed in this ship, and find nothing more than sea and sky--sea and sky! I can find no country lying beyond--nothing to give me thoughts of home. Oh, sir!” he cried, “you cannot understand this! How should you? It is horrible for me to look back and see the whole of my life eclipsed--to see a wall of darkness reared close behind me through which I _cannot_ see! What things precious, infinitely precious to me, may be hidden! It would ease me, sir, greatly ease me, if God would but illuminate my mind only for a moment, that I might know what is lost to me. And the loneliness of it all!--the feeling of desolation that comes over me in my solitude! Mr. Sherman, consider how lonely I am! Not a voice, not an echo of anything that may be dear to me, comes out of that darkness behind me. Who would believe that memory is life, and the loss of it worse than death?” He bowed his head and covered his face with his thin hands, and some tears trickled through his fingers. God help him! Suffering had subdued that manly nature to the feebleness and weakness of a child, and tears, though there had been a time when no anguish of his own could have wrung such things from his eyes, now easily rose with the expression of his feelings. Here Captain Duff, coming up to Mr. Sherman, interrupted the conversation, and Holdsworth, ashamed of the weakness he had no power to control, went with his slow step and shaky movements below. * * * * * When they were within two days’ sail of Sydney, the boatswain and two hands came aft to the skipper, and the boatswain, touching his cap, spoke as follows: