‘Ah, I don’t want ne’er a doctor, mate. I’ve got my physic at last, Lord knows.’ ‘Mark, Mark, don’t ‘ee talk so,’ said Mrs. Peartree, almost breaking down. But Uncle Mark smiled faintly again, and reached forth his trembling hand towards her. ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘’tain’t no use denying of it, I’m agoing away. That there spar did the job for me--but nobody’s to blame for it, only me;’ then, as his wandering gaze fell upon his brother, who sat sobbing in a corner, he asked suddenly:-- ‘Luke, mate, what’s come o’ th’ old barge?’ ‘She be clean sunk, mate,’ returned Luke, dashing away the tears with the back of his rough, weatherbeaten hand. ‘She be sunk out there in the river, up to Southam Beacon.’ ‘She was a good wessel,’ said Mark, faintly; ‘many’s the year we sailed her, you and me. And she be sunk at last!’ ‘O, mate,’ cried Uncle Luke, piteously, ‘don’t take on about that. We’ll get her up again, but if you go and die we shall all be adrift together--little Madlin, and mother, and me, and all our hearts’ll be broke.’ Uncle Mark did not reply; he lay back with closed eyes, his breathing was laboured, and the hand which lay in his wife’s turned cold as stone. For a moment Mrs. Peartree’s heart sank in dread, for she thought that he was dying, but she neither spoke nor moved; she only clasped the hand a little tighter in her own, and let the scalding tears run down her cheeks. It was a sorrowful group, and the warmth and comfort of the surroundings seemed to make the sorrow of parting more keen. There was a death-like silence in the room, the ticking of the old Dutch clock in the corner rang out bell-like and clear, and between the ticks came the stifled sobs of Madeline and Uncle Luke. The kettle was singing on the hob, the cat purring on the hearth, and the sun-rays creeping in through the window touched the bowed heads of those about the sofa, and laid a soft caressing hand on the child’s trembling form. Presently Uncle Mark opened his eyes, and rousing himself suddenly, gazed wildly about him. ‘Luke, mate,’ he said, ‘that warn’t right about the old barge. No, no, she bean’t sunk. Why look, there she be a-sailing up to the bridge--only her sails be white--so white--and there be a chap in white at the helm. What’s that noise? It be like a steamboat’s whistle i’ the fog. Oh, if my head warn’t so dazed-like I could hear it--but I be kind o’ stupid to-night. Give me a light; it’s black dark.’ ‘Uncle Mark, it’s morning,’ said Madeline, creeping to his side. ‘Dear, dear Uncle Mark, can’t you see the sun?’ But Uncle Mark did not seem to hear the child’s voice. His eyes were fixed on vacancy, or, rather, on some vision unbeheld of eyes. ‘Look out there ahead,’ he said faintly. ‘There be a white barge coming down with the wind on her quarter, and the waters all black beneath her. Look, there be folk in white standing on her deck and singing. Hark! that be Brother Billy Hornblower’s voice, sure--ly?’