"Well, well," she said, raising her hands and eyes to heaven, as though she addressed her remarks chiefly to celestial ears, "did ever mortal see the likes? Fish wi' wings an' no feathers! I'll believe _anything_ after that!" Peggy Mitford is not the first, and won't be the last woman--to say nothing of man--who has thus bounded from the depths of scepticism to the heights of credulity. STORY ONE, CHAPTER 5. Dr Hayward, who had given great satisfaction with his lecture, possessed so much urbanity and power of anecdote and song, that he soon became a general favourite alike with steerage and cabin passengers. One sultry forenoon Terrence O'Connor, the assistant steward, went aft and whispered to him that Ian Stuart, the sick boy, wanted very much to see him. "I think he's dying, sor," said Terrence, in a low tone. "Has the doctor seen him this morning?" asked Hayward, as he rose quickly and hurried forward. "He's seed him twice, sor," said Terrence, "an' both times he shook his head as he left him." It was evident that the steerage passengers felt death to be hovering over them, for they were unusually silent, and those who were in the fore-cabin at the time Hayward passed, cast solemn glances at him as he descended and went to the berth of the poor boy. It was a comparatively large berth, and, being at the time on the weather side of the ship, had the port open to admit fresh air. "My poor boy, do you suffer much?" said the doctor, in soothing tones, as he sat down beside Ian, and took his hand. It was obvious that Ian suffered, for an expression of weariness and pain sat on his emaciated countenance, but on the appearance of Hayward the expression gave place to a glad smile on a face which was naturally refined and intellectual. "Oh, thank you--thanks--" said Ian, in a low hesitating voice, for he was almost too far gone to speak. "There, don't speak, dear boy," said the doctor, gently. "I see you have been thinking about our last conversation. Shall I read to you?" "No--no. Jesus is speaking--to me. His words are crowding on me. No need for--reading when He speaks; `Come--unto Me--I will _never_-- leave--'" His breath suddenly failed him, and he ceased to speak, but the glad look in his large eyes showed that the flow of Divine words, though inaudible, had not ceased. "Mother--father," he said, after a short pause, "don't cry. You'll soon join me. Don't let them cry, Dr Hayward. The parting won't be for long." The Doctor made no reply, for at that moment the unmistakable signs of dissolution began to overspread the pinched features, and in a few minutes it became known throughout the ship that the "King of Terrors" had been there in the guise of an Angel of Light to pluck a little flower and transplant it into the garden of God. Hayward tried to impress this fact on the bereaved parents, but they would not be comforted.