"Enough, Elder," said he; "all I request is easily done; yet I was not the less anxious to find one whom I could confide in. As soon as this oppressed heart ceases to beat, you must take this locket and ring"--and he uncovered his bosom, upon which they lay, besmeared with his blood. Smiling, he continued: "The blood is a proper envelope for them; and I am only so far happy that I was not killed out-right--for then they might have fallen into hands which would have done them no justice. These baubles and I must be forgotten together, whether I die here at sea, or survive until we reach Jamaica. You must, when I am to be consigned to my abode of peace and rest, place them where they lie at present. You will do this for me?" I pressed his hand, for words were denied me. My tears fell upon his pale face, as I stooped to kiss his forehead; a sigh was all that passed between us; but our eyes told more than our lips could have uttered. I left him alone, to enjoy his own reflections, and went upon deck. In a few hours the surgeon's worst fears were realised; tetanus came on, and he died the following morning in my arms. I fulfilled his last request, and his body was launched into the restless ocean on the day before we reached Kingston. His man-of-war's name, as the seamen call it, when one--a different from their real one--is assumed for any reason that requires concealment, was James Walden, by which he was rated in the ship's books. Next day, when his effects, scanty as they were, were put up for sale, I bought a small prayer-book, which I had often seen him use, for less money than I have seen a few needles and a little thread bring at the mainmast. Amongst all that he possessed, there was not a single scrap of paper, or anything by which I could be led to guess who he was. On a blank page of the prayer-book there was written, in a small, beautiful female hand, "Matilda Everard;" but whether it was written by the individual he had once mentioned in his sleep, or some other, it was impossible to say.