The Missing Ship: The Log of the Ouzel" Galley"

acable Death-has cast his shadow on a life that custom and circumstance have rendered familiar. Whatever the personal feeling may be-whether dismay, despair, or relief-no man or woman

burning and a couple of oil-lamps shed an uncertain glow; but outside, the wind roared inland from the shore, and the rain splashed in furious showers against the windows of the house. It was a nig

e dying man lay. His hard, emaciated face was set in an impenetrable mask; his glazed eyes were fixed immovably on a dis

over to see him in the fall of the evening; and no accentuation of the gale that lashed the house,

He was barely twenty-three years old, but the self-control that comes from endurance and privation sat unmistakably on his knitted brows and closed lips. He was neither handsome of feature nor graceful of figure, yet there was something more striking and interesting than either grace or

f flesh. His glassy eyes were still fixed and immovable save for an occasional twitching of the eyelids; his pallid lips were drawn back from his st

watch him-you c

t have worked a well-constructed, manageable machine; and a sudden rush of joy, of freedom and recompense flooded his heart and set his pulses throbbing. He momenta

s younger brother. Possessed of a peculiar temperament-passionate, headstrong, dogged in his resolves, he had shaken the dust of Scotland from his feet; sworn never to be beholden to either father or brother for the fraction of a penny, and had gone out into the world to seek his fortune. But the fortune had been far to seek. For years he had followed the sea;

nderson married after a courtship as brief as it was happy. For a year he shared the hap-hazard life of his wife and fathe

. A homeless failure may tramp the face of the earth and feel no shame; but the unsuccessful man who is a husband an

equally for others. The years that followed his marriage were but the unwinding of a pitifully old story. Before his boy was ten years old he had run the gamut of humiliation; he had done ev

Day by day his serious eyes grew to comprehend the lines that marked his mother's beloved face; to know the cost at which his own education, his own wants, were supplied by the tired, silent father, who, despite his shabby clothes and prematurely broke

he sat industriously sewing, and beg her for the hundredth time to recount the story of the grim Scotch home where his father had lost his birthright; of the stern old grandfather who had died

!" he would cry. "'Twill all

ld drop her sewing and draw him to her he

e he passed sixteen years; then the first uph

had partially subsided-was the remembrance of his mother calling him to her room; of her kissing him, crying over

n slowly his boyish, immature mind grasped something of the nobility that prompted the decision-something of the inexpressible love that counted sentiment and personal

of sharp suspense followed for mother and son. Then

n the sea-coast, a dozen miles from the family home which had remained untenanted since his father's death. He admitted that with advancing years the duties of life had begun to weigh upon him, diverting his mind and time

son brave and gentle during seventeen years of wearing poverty made itself felt. All thought of personal grievance faded from her mind as she pointed out the urgent necessity of John's being seen and known by this uncle, whose only relation and ostensi

reach Scotland to make his inheritance sure; and before the day closed she wrote to Andrew Henderson accepting his offer. A

cle to the routine of work expected of him. No mention was made of his recent loss, no suggestion was given that his mother should make her double

ist of the wheel, had made the arbiter of his life. Even to one so young and inexperienced, it was impossible to know Andrew Henderson and not to feel that some strange peculiarity set him apart from other men. In his ascetic face, in his large, light-blue eyes, in h

t his feet. Returning home from a ramble over the headland, his observant eye was caught by the sight of a narrow foot-track that, crossing the main pathway of the cliff, wound steeply up

dozen yards; when, as the anticipated summit was reached, he halted in abrupt, dismayed surprise; for with alarming suddenness the land broke off short, disclosing

ing sun gleaming on its solid walls, its low, massive door and round window of thick stained glass. He leaned out over the shelving rock, staring down upon it with wide, as

the opaque window, nothing rewarded his curiosity, and after half an hour of diligent endeavor he was compelled t

ich he shared with his uncle, he chafed under the silence of his companion and at the air of calm indifference that the whitewashed room wit

the bare stairs to his own room; then prompted by the impulse he never neglected, he

ed by his adventure, were more prone than usual to the suggestion of outward things; and for almost the first time since his arrival, he felt drawn to study his intimate surroundings. With a new curiosity he let his eyes wander from the severe book-shelves to the ugly iron safe that stood in the most prominent positi

d; The Soul in Relation to the H

built stone chapel took on a new and more personal meaning. With a quick gesture he thrust the books back into their place, extinguished the lamp, and softly left

ay over both land and water. Without hesitation he turned into the cliff path, and followed it until his quick eyes caught the indistinct foot-track that he had

ed again, but in new surprise. In the hazy, mellow moonlight, the small building stood out sharp and dark as on his previo