She was seated by the fire,
In her arms she held a child,
Whispering baby-words caressing,
And then, looking up, she smiled.
Smiled on him who stood beside her—
O! the bitter truth was told!
In her look of trusting fondness,
I had seen the look of old.

But she rose and turn’d towards me
(Cold and dumb I waited there),
With a shriek of fear and terror,
And a white face of despair.
He had been an ancient comrade—
Not a single word we said,
While we gazed upon each other,
He the living: I the dead!

I drew nearer, nearer to her,
And I took her trembling hand,
Looking on her white face, looking
That her heart might understand
All the love and all the pity
That my lips refused to say!
I thank God no thought save sorrow
Rose in our crush’d hearts that day.

Bitter tears that desolate moment,
Bitter, bitter tears we wept
We three broken hearts together,
While the baby smiled and slept.
Tears alone—no words were spoken,
Till he—till her husband said
That my boy (I had forgotten
The poor child), that he was dead.

Then at last I rose, and, turning,
Wrung his hand, but made no sign;
And I stoop’d and kiss’d her forehead
Once more, as if she were mine.
Nothing of farewell I utter’d,
Save in broken words to pray
That God in His great love would bless her—
Then in silence pass’d away.

Over the great restless ocean
For twenty and six years I roam;
All my comrades, old and weary,
Have gone back to die at home.
Home! yes, I shall reach a haven,
I, too, shall reach home and rest;
I shall find her waiting for me
With our baby on her breast.

While the foregoing story was being
told, I had kept my eye fixed upon little Willy
Lindsey, a young Scotch boy (one of the two
apprentices), who had been recommended to
Captain Ravender’s care by a friend in
Glasgow; and very sad it was to see the
expression of his face. All the early part of
the voyage he had been a favourite in the
ship. The ballads he sang, and the curious
old stories he told, made him a popular
visitor in the cabin, no less than among
the people. Though only entered as apprentice
seaman, Captain Ravender had kept him
as much about him as he could; and I am
bold to say, the lad’s affection for Captain
Ravender was as sincere as if he had been
one of his own blood. Even before the wreck,
a change had taken place in his manner. He
grew silent and thoughtful. Mrs. Atherfield
and Miss Coleshaw, who had been very
kind to him, observed the alteration, and
bantered him on the melancholy nature of
the songs he sang to them, and the sad air
with which he went about the duties of the
vessel. I asked him if anything had occurred
to make him dull; but he put me off with a
laugh, and at last told me that he was thinking
about his home; for, said he, a certain
anniversary was coming soon; “and maybe
I’ll tell you,” he added, “why the expectation
of it makes me so sorrowful.”

He was a nice, delicate, almost feminine-
looking boy, of sixteen or seventeen; the son
of a small farmer in Ayrshire, as Captain
Ravender’s Glasgow friend had told him, and,
as usual with his countrymen, a capital hand
at letters and accounts. He had brought
with him a few books, chiefly of the wild and
supernatural kind; and it seemed as if he
had given way to his imagination more than
was quite healthy, perhaps, for the other
faculties of his mind. But we all set down
his delight and belief in ghost stories and
such like, to the superstition of his country,
where the folks seem to make up for being
the most matter-of-fact people in Europe in
the affairs of this world, by being the wildest
and most visionary inquirers into the affairs
of the next. Willy had been useful to all
departments on board. The steward had
employed him at his ledger, Captain Ravender
at his reckonings, and as to the passengers,
they had made quite a friend and
companion of the youth.

So I watched his looks, as I’ve said before,
and I now beckoned Willy to come to my
side, that I might keep him as warm as I
could. At first he either did not perceive
my signal, or was too apathetic or too deep
sunk in his own thoughts to act upon it.
But the carpenter, who sat next him, seeing
my motion, helped him across the boat, and
I put my arm round his shoulders.

“Bear up, Willy,” I said, “you're young
and strong, and, with the help of Heaven,
we shall all live to see our friends again.”

The boy’s eye brightened with hope for a
moment; then he shook his head and
said:

“You’re very kind to say so, sir; but it
canna be—at least for me.”

The night was now closing fast in, but
there was still light enough to see his face.
It was quite calm, and wore a sort of smile.
Everybody listened to hear what the poor
laddie said; and I whispered to him:

“You promised to tell me why you were
depressed by the coming of an anniversary,
Willy. When is it?”

“It’s to-night,” he said, with a solemn
voice. “And O! how different this is from
what it used to be! It’s the birth-day o’ my
sister Jean.”

“Come, tell us all about it,” I said.
“Maybe, speaking it out openly will ease