"What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirit, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death? The world recedes, it disappears: Heaven opens on my eyes, my ears With sounds seraphic ring: Lend, lend your wings: I mount, I fly; O grave, where is thy victory! O death, where is thy sting!" The curtain which separates this lower world from the glories of the unseen bliss above, had grown thin and almost transparent to the eyes of the Christian boy, thus brought to the gates of death. Near, very near to him seemed the face of the Saviour who had of late been his realized and beloved companion. It was as the mother bows down to her suffering child, that this glimpse of the dear Redeemer was made so plain to the weakened, prostrate boy. He was still in the flesh, and to know weary waiting and suffering, ere health should once more send the glad blood bounding along his veins. Yet there was work for Blair Robertson on his couch of pain, work to do for his heavenly Master. Blair was not the only sufferer on board the prize. Often during the homeward voyage, a settee was placed beside the soft couch which Derry had appropriated to Blair's especial use. The occupant of the settee was a huge, muscular, repulsive young man, whose yellow hair lay uncombed on his pillow, while his pale, freckle-marked face was distorted with pain, rage, and the torture of a rebellious spirit, when sorely smitten by the hand of God. Many of Brimstone's fierce shipmates had been hurried into eternity in the midst of the struggle on the deck of the East Indiaman. Blair's coarse tormentor, however, had escaped with his life, but with one leg so wounded and bruised that it was promptly cut off, as the only way of preventing ultimate death. Brimstone ground his teeth and swore fearful imprecations at each movement that reminded him of his loss. It was in vain that Derry bade him be quiet, and rather thank God that time was left him for repentance. In Brimstone's hardened heart there seemed no resting-place for good seed, no soil prepared for the heavenly plant. His only relief was in forgetfulness of his misfortune, when he was wiled from thoughts of himself by one of Blair's stirring tales of adventure, or ballads of the olden time. Blair would weary out his little strength for the benefit of his companion, and yet win not one word of thanks for his kindly endeavors. Yet he persevered, ever mingling in his stories and songs whispers of the only source of comfort for the afflicted, the only balm for the suffering soul. Brimstone's wild and wicked life had poisoned the very sources and flow of his life's blood. His was no flesh to heal, like that of a healthy child.