day, till the night shall come that no man can
work, "aide-toi et Dien t'aidera"—aid thyself
and God will succour thee.

THE GOOD SHIP SHOOTING STAR.
I.

"CAPTAIN RITSON, allow me to
introduce to you Mr. Pennant, your new purser. Mr.
Pennant, pray take a chair, while I have a little talk
on business with Captain Ritson."

Mr. Blizzard, of the firm of David and
Blizzard, 72, Limehouse Street, Liverpool,
continued:

"Captain Ritson, we want to make this first
trip of the Shooting Star an auspicious trip; we
want to have our vessel the first into Quebec
this year. We save the dues; for they always
return the dues to the first vessel that arrives
from England; but it is not so much for the
sake of the value of the dues, as the éclat of the
thing we want. Our trade with Canada is
large, and we want to get our name up. We
do not, of course, want you to run any danger.
No, that is by no means the wish of the firm;
but we wish you to skirt the ice and run in on
the very first opening. You will get off
Labrador just in time for the frost to have
thawed, and, with care, there need be no risk
whatever."

Mr. Blizzard said all this leaning against his
railed desk, and nestled in among the files of
invoices and bills of lading. He was a hearty,
fresh-coloured, portly man, very neat in his
dress, and remarkable for a white waistcoat,
that seemed as hard and stainless as enamel.
He played with his watch-chain as he spoke,
and eyed the captain, the purser, and the first
mate, who sat in an uncomfortable half circle.
With his well-polished boots planted on the
immovable rock of a large capital, Mr. Blizzard
seemed to look boldly seaward metaphorically,
and consider wrecks and such casualties as
mere well-devised fictions.

Captain Ritson was a big North-countryman,
with a broad acreage of chest, clear grey eyes,
and large red hands; a sturdy, honest, self-reliant
man, without a fear in the world. The mate,
Mr. Cardew, by no means so pleasant to look on,
being a little spare, thin-legged, cadaverous
person, with yellowish eyes, sat in sullen
subserviency on the very edge of his chair just
behind the captain. The purser, a brisk, cheery,
young fellow, sat deprecatingly (as if he
thought he ought to stand) a trifle further back
still.

"Right it is, Mister Blizzard," said the
captain, buttoning his pilot coat across his chest,
as if preparing for an immediate gale, and
about to order everything to be battened down.
"Right it is, and a better wessel than the
Shooting Star I don't hope to see. She's
sound, Mr. Blizzard, I do believe, from main
truck to keel; sound, if I may use the
expression as a pious man's conscience. The only
thing that wexes me, howsomever, is that,
having been sent for to my native place, down
Allonby way, on very sad business" (here the
captain held up sorrowfully an enormous  hat
covered with black crape), '"I couldn't see to
the lading of this 'ere wessel as ' I generally
likes to do with wessels I am called upon to
command."

"That is of no consequence at all, Captain
Ritson," said Mr. Blizzard, pouring out three
glasses of sherry all in a row from a decanter
on an inky mantelpiece near him. "I have been
away at Manchester, and my partner, Mr. David,
has been very ill with a touch of pleurisy, but
our first mate here, Mr. Cardew, has seen to it
all."

The mate nodded assent.

"And the cargo is---?''

"Agricultural implements, machinery, and
cloth goods."

Mr. Blizzard referred to a ledger for this
information, as he spoke, as if he scarcely knew, in
his multiplicity of business, whether the Shooting
Star might not be laden with frankincense, pearls,
gold-dust, and poll-parrots—but he would see.

Having ascertained the fact, Mr. Blizzard
carefully replaced the ledger, and, turning his
back on his company, poked the fire, and
consulted a large sheet almanack over the
mantelpiece, as a sign the interview was over.

"We sail tomorrow morning, Sunday," said
Captain Ritson, who was a Wesleyan, to the
purser, as they left the office of Messrs. David
and Blizzard; " I likes to hear the blessed
Sabbath bells calling to one another as I go out
of the Mersey, and the men like it; and, what's
more, it's lucky. It's like the land taking leave of
us, as I always say, giving a sort of blessing on
the ship; at least, I'm a plain man, and that's
how I take it. It's the day I always start,
Sunday is."

The purser expressed his hope that he should
succeed in doing his duty, and pleasing the
captain and all his employers.

"Oh, you'll do, young man, I can see; don't
you be afraid. Won't he, Mr. Cardew? Clear,
straightforward eyes, and all aboveboard."

Mr. Cardew thought he would do, but he did
not look on the purser at all. His mind was
running on very different things.

II.

"Joe," said the purser's wife, when Pennant
returned to his little cottage at Birkenhead, and
announced his new appointment, "I don't know
how it is, but 'I've got a strong presentiment,
and I wish you wouldn't go in this ship. I never
did like ships with those sort of names. The
best run you ever had was in the Jane Parker,
and the worst one in the Morning Star. Stick
to the plain names. Besides, if s too early in
the season. Now, do oblige me, Joe, and give
it up. Stav for a fortnight later; get an
Australian ship. It's too early for Canada. It
is, indeed. Mrs. Thompson says so."

"Jenny, my love, you're a silly little woman.
A pretty sailor's wife you make! Come, pack up
my kit, for I'm going, that is the long and the
short of it. Nonsense about sentiments. And