Then came the order “Abandon ship!” The ocean was calm, and three of the boats were launched without difficulty; Captain Stafford, Mr. Maitland and Mr. Wells each taking charge of one. There was no time to take a last look, no time for anything but to hurry away from the ship, before the accumulation of gas in the hold should burst the decks open or blow the hatches off. The _Lochleven’s_ sails were flapping softly in obedience to the gentle swell. Her four tall masts with their great spread of canvas, and imposing three hundred feet of dark hull, lent a deceptive appearance of security and majestic strength. She had not been deserted any too soon, for just as the stars were fading in the east before the swift tropical dawn, the expected rending of her decks took place. Clouds of smoke and sheets of flame leaped up, the canvas and rigging caught, and in an incredibly short space of time, the great vessel was blazing fiercely. [Picture: The Burning Ship] The blowing up of the decks released the imprisoned flames, which roared and crackled; writhing up the ropes and shrouds to the very mast heads, as though eager for more material to devour. Those in the boats watched the awful spectacle with fascinated eyes. The heat became unbearable, burning brands fell into the ocean, and a little breeze springing up, they took advantage of it to get under way. Fanned by the rising wind, that four thousand tons of burning coal lighted up the ocean for miles and miles around, while the boats seemed to be floating on a sea of blood. To their awe-struck occupants, it seemed that the great beacon must be visible from the Galapagos Islands,—the haven which they were destined to reach three days later. Suddenly a cry came from Howard. In the hurry and excitement of departure, Lord Nelson had been left behind! He begged his father to put back—implored his mother, with choking sobs, to let him save his cherished companion. They tried to comfort him, but in vain. In speechless grief the boy held out his arms towards the burning ship, gradually melting into the horizon line; and if Howard Stafford lives to be four score, he will never shed more bitter or scalding tears than fell from his eyes at that moment. [Picture: “Abe hurled the duff at the astounded minister”] THE PARSON’S TEXT. [Picture: The Parson’s Text] Her Majesty’s ship _Crocodile_ was anchored in Plymouth Roads one fine Sunday morning, and a couple of seamen had obtained shore leave for the afternoon.