received of the instability of several of the great commercial houses in India. This news excited old Morton’s fears; and his anxiety on the subject had a fatal effect upon his nerves, shaken and debilitated by previous illness. He felt that he had not long to live, and, in expectation of approaching dissolution, he made his will, by which he left all he was possessed of to Philip, on condition that he took the name of Morton. He earnestly enjoined Philip to hasten to Calcutta, and, as his representative, to assist, to the utmost of his ability, the house with which he was connected, in the distress which he foresaw was impending over it. Before Philip could prepare to comply with his wishes, however, the old man became so alarmingly ill that his life was despaired of, and, though he rallied wonderfully for a time, a relapse, brought on by incautious exposure to the air, proved fatal, and Philip was left a second time fatherless. Sadly and sincerely did he mourn the loss of his affectionate and liberal protector—his earliest, his kindest, his constant friend. As soon as circumstances would allow, he hastened to fulfil his deceased uncle’s wishes, and, crossing the Channel, after a rapid equipment for his voyage, he hurried down to Portsmouth to join a ship on the point of sailing for Calcutta. The passengers were all on board, and the vessel was only waiting for a fair wind to proceed to sea. Two days afterwards, they were dashing along down Channel, with a favourable wind, with a bright sky over their heads, and with the cheering hope of a good passage. The animated and novel scene excited Philip’s admiration, and cheered his spirits. The bright and beautiful face of Nature, under an aspect so new to him; the sunbeams glancing from the crested waves; the white foam breaking under the vessel’s bow; the exhilarating sense of rapid motion, as the water hissed and rustled alongside; the rapidly-receding landmarks on the shore; and the joyous faces of the crew—all conspired to distract his thoughts for a while from the grief which had weighed down his spirits. Several of the gentlemen passengers were on deck, enjoying the beauty of the scene; but none of the ladies, of whom he heard there were three or four on board, had yet made their appearance. At eight o’clock, the steward announced, “Spirits on the table, sir;” but Philip heeded him not. Now that the first excitement of novelty was over, his thoughts reverted to the home he had so lately left, and to the dear and valued benefactor he should never see again; and he leaned sorrowfully over the gangway, to indulge his mournful retrospections. From these reveries he was soon roused, by the sound of suppressed voices close to him; and, on turning round to see whence it proceeded, he perceived, through the dim light, the figures of two of the crew stretched at full length on the deck, close to the foremost quarter-deck carronade, and under the lee of the bulwark.