vessel, abandoned by her crew, and, in all probability, had been the object the Fidget ran into the night before. The more he thought of this the more certain Tom became that such must have been the case. The derelict was an awkward obstacle to meet on a foggy night. She floated so low in the water that the seas washed over the greater part of her, and her masts had all gone close to the deck. It would have been very difficult to distinguish her for any distance on a clear night; in a thick fog she could not have been seen for fifty yards. She was completely waterlogged, and Tom surmised she was a timber ship, kept afloat from the nature of her cargo. Such a vessel would offer tremendous resistance in a collision, and, for a light-built craft like the Fidget to strike her, when going at a high rate of speed, meant certain destruction, for her bows would be crushed in like a bandbox.

Each moment the water became warmer, and restored his deadened limbs to life. The change of temperature was so sudden and so great that Tom knew he must have crossed the wall of the Gulf Stream.

It is a strange thing, but frequently met with, where two large ocean currents meet, but do not commingle. They flow on side by side in parallel streams, their course being changed in the direction of a resultant to the two forces they exerted as separate

streams.

The Gulf Stream and Arctic current are an example the temperature of the former is about eighty degrees; of the latter, forty degrees. The Gulf Stream is deflected from its northerly course towards Europe, and is the cause of the climate of the British Isles being so much milder than that of other countries of the same parallel of latitude. On the volume and strength of the Arctic current in a great measure depends the prospect of our crops in England.

The change of temperature was most delightful to Tom; but he could not help being saddened by the reflection that, had the Fidget foundered fifty miles further south, numbers of her crew, who had perished from the cold and physical weakness induced by it, might now be alive and well.

As Tom did not seem to be drifting any nearer the derelict, he determined to try and reach the wreck by swimming. He stripped himself of his clothes and tied them round his neck, then, with a slight pang at parting from the breaker which had been of so much use to him, he cast it off and struck out.

When he reached the vessel all his expectations were confirmed. She was a large timber ship, waterlogged, and abandoned; her bulwarks were carried away on both sides, and her deck was flush with the water. The forecastle and poop were still standing, though the sea, evidently, had occasionally washed over them also.

On the port bow was a large hole, recently made, and Tom had no doubt that this was caused by the Fidget, when being driven at great speed by the orders of the ignorant little fool who had gone to his last account.

The force of the collision must have been very great, for not only was the ship's side cut completely through, but huge bulks of timber inside, which formed part of the cargo, were broken in half like lucifer matches.

Tom made a minute inspection of the vessel. He was dying of thirst, and hoped to find a store of fresh water somewhere. He saw the bolts in the deck, to which two large puncheons of fresh water had been lashed; parts of the lashings still remained attached. to them, but the casks themselves had been torn away by the force of the sea, and washed overboard. The fore part of the poop, in which had been the Captain's cabin, was also partly washed away, and completely

gutted, so that all chance of finding water or victuals in there was gone. Right aft in the stern was a small stow hole, in which were some spare sails, rope, and other ship's stores. Tom discovered this in his quest for water; but he did not think it of much importance, in fact, he could think of nothing but his own unquenchable thirst.

Having carefully inspected the after part of the vessel in vain, he went forward with decreasing hope. to examine the forecastle.

This was rather higher out of the water than the poop, and had probably formed the last shelter for the crew before abandoning their ship.

Tom found a gridiron and a boot to remind him of humanity, but not a thing else that could be turned to the smallest use.

For a moment he gave way to despondency.

"Why should he have been saved through the terrors of the fearful night he had just passed, to be starved to death on board an old derelict?" he asked himself. And then it struck him that there was something peculiarly suitable in his ending his days on board an abandoned wreck.

Was he not also a derelict? Had he not been abandoned by Sybil? abandoned by his father? abandoned, he believed, by his God?

He sunk his head on his breast in despair, and was inclined to throw up the sponge. His chin touched the little bag hanging round his neck, in which he had sewn Vita's photograph, and the touch put new life in him.

There was one, at any rate, who had not deserted him, whom, if anything, he had deserted.

He held the shapeless little bag in his hand. It was shrivelled and discoloured. The photograph inside was probably undistinguishable pulp, but all the world contained to Tom no charm so dear, no amulet so sacred, no fetich so potent as that little bag.

At the time of leaving Marston Towers, Tom had scarcely recovered from the spells by which Sybil had enchained him; but now, alone on the limitless. ocean, within touch, so to speak, of death, he for the first time in his life realised the strength of his love for Vita, beside which his passion for Sybil was but a whiff from a furnace, which scorched and passed away.

Tom raised his head, and his face wore that pleasant smile which had for some months been absent from it. He determined not to give up life without a struggle. Walking aft he made a further examination of the stow hole, and dragged out a staysail and coil of rope. He found that the top of the timber cargo below consisted of rough pine poles, about the size of telegraph posts. He got three of these out and lashing their heads together raised them forward as a tripod, and secured their heels to bolts in the deck. To this he hoisted the staysail, and his delight was great when he saw his sail drawing, and the derelict's head slowly paying off under its influence.

This work had occupied him several hours. No ordinary man could have accomplished it; and in all Tom Marston's extraordinary career, of which this story is a feeble sketch, never did he display a greater proof of his supernatural physical strength and endurance than on this occasion, when, having been exposed during the night to trials that had overcome all his late shipmates, he was able, though suffering from agonising thirst and want of food, to perform a task which would have overtaxed the strength of almost any human being. His preparations were not over yet. He next got a large piece of canvas and stretched it horizontally between the legs of the tripod, allowing it to dip in the centre, where he made a hole, and below this he suspended the boot he found under the top-gallant forecastle, it being the only receptacle on

board for holding water, which he hoped to obtain from some passing shower.

Having done this, he coiled himself away under the top-gallant forecastle, and courted the sleep he stood so much in want of.

For three days and nights, Tom remained on board the derelict, without food or water. He was gradually becoming weaker, and occasionally his mind wandered. Sometimes he dropped off in a state, half slumber, half stupor, and directly he awoke he examined the boot, which swung backwards and forwards with the motion of the ship, seemingly mocking him. Not a drop of rain fell all this time; and Tom longed for death to come and relieve him from his tortures.

Had his strength remained, it is possible that he might have taken a plunge into the now smooth, inviting sea, and joined that state" where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest;" but he was incapable of any exertion.

Thus he remained, until one day he fancied he heard voices. He was only in a semi-state of consciousness at the time, and dared not feel elated. Another minute, and a shadow fell on him, as a man leant down and examined him.

"Holy mother of Moses! Here's Lazarus," exclaimed a Yankee voice, which sounded in Tom's ears like the welcome of an angel at the gates of Paradise. "Tell you what, boys, Tanner ain't in it for starvation. I guess this cuss has been off his feed this last two years."

They cracked their unfeeling jokes; but these rough American sailors lifted poor Tom as tenderly as though he had been some favourite sister; and they blasphemed and swore, to drive back the gentle thoughts which filled their minds, and made their eyesight dim.

An American whaling schooner had sighted the