The boy, seeing him awake, turned to him as a friend who would relieve him: and moaned his distress. The spectacle of his agony, and his own sufferings, maddened Holdsworth. All along he had dreaded the temptation of the rum, the fiery quality of which, whilst it momentarily allayed, would, he was sure, aggravate tenfold the craving for water. But suffering mastered him now. He seized the pannikin and pouring out some of the liquor, put it to the boy’s dry lips. He drank greedily, but the ardent spirit checked his breath, and he struggled wildly, beating the air with his little hands. But meanwhile Holdsworth had also drunk, and handed the remainder of the draught to Johnson, his throat softened, and his tongue capable now of articulation. Johnson drew a deep breath, and exclaimed: “Thank God for that, master. I should have taken it before had I thought it good for me.” Holdsworth gave the boy a biscuit, which he grabbed at, and thrust large pieces into his mouth, as though seeking to extinguish the fire that the rum had kindled. When the pain of the burning spirit had passed, he said, “Give mamma some. When you were asleep, Mr. Holdsworth, I heard her calling for water.” Holdsworth, thinking that she slept, would not arouse her; but noticing that her arm hung awkwardly over the boat’s side, and left the half-closed fingers trailing in the water, he raised it gently to place her hand on her lap. In doing this, he observed a lifelessness in her arm such as sleep could not induce. He peered into her face, and cried out quickly: “O my God!” Then bade Johnson move, that he might get beside her, and reverently lifted her head. There was no need to glance twice at her face to know what had happened, although the heart-broken expression in it would almost suggest that she slept, and was dreaming a painful dream. Her eyes were half-closed, her under-jaw had dropped, yet she looked even in her death a sweet, long-suffering woman. “Give her something to drink,” pleaded the little boy, passionately, imagining from her silence, and the expression on her face, that she was suffering as he had and could not speak. “She don’t want it--she’s dead!” answered Johnson. Holdsworth half turned, but checked the exclamation that rose to his lips, feeling that the bitter truth must be made known to the child sooner or later. The boy did not understand the answer; he crawled upon his mother’s knee, with the pannikin in his hand, which he held out whilst he said: “Wake up, mamma! Open your eyes! Mr. Holdsworth will give you something to drink.” Holdsworth removed the child, and seated him near the mast, and bade him stop there. He then returned, and lifting the poor woman from her seat, placed her gently in the bottom of the boat, throwing her dress over her face to hide the anguish in it, and blot out the mockery of the daylight. The boy began to cry, and asked Mr. Holdsworth to wake his mamma up. Neither of the men could answer him.