The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Kangaroo Hunters, by Anne Bowman

THE KANGAROO HUNTERS;

OR,

ADVENTURES IN THE BUSH.

By ANNE BOWMAN,

AUTHOR OF "ESPERANZA," "THE CASTAWAYS," "THE YOUNG EXILES," ETC., ETC.

"Light and limber, upwards driven,
On the hoar crag quivering;
Or through gorges thunder-riven,
Leaps she with her airy spring!
But behind her still, the foe—
Near, and near the deadly bow!"

Schiller, translated by Bulwer.

PHILADELPHIA:
PORTER & COATES.

"He faced round, and with his fore-feet—his arms I should say—he seized me, and gave me a heavy fall."

PREFACE.

The rapid spread of education creates a continual demand for new books, of a character to gratify the taste of the young, and at the same time to satisfy the scruples of their instructors. The restless, inquiring spirit of youth craves, from its first development, food for the imagination, and even the simplest nursery rhymes owe their principal charm to their wonderful improbability. To these succeed the ever-interesting tales of Fairies and Enchanters; and the ardent boy only forsakes Ali Baba and Sindbad for the familiar and lifelike fictions of "Robinson Crusoe," and the hundred pleasant tales on the "Robinson Crusoe" model which have succeeded that popular romance.

It is the nature of man to soar above the common prose of every-day life in his recreations; from the weary school-boy, who relieves his mind, after arithmetical calculations and pages of syntax, by fanciful adventures amidst scenes of novelty and peril, and returns to his labors refreshed, to the over-tasked man of study or science, who wades through his days and nights of toil, cheered by the prospect of a holiday of voyaging or travelling over new scenes.

This spirit of inquiry has usually the happiest influence on the character of the young and old, and leads them—

"To know
The works of God, thereby to glorify
The great Work-Master."

In this belief, we are encouraged to continue to supply the young with books which do not profess to be true, though they are composed of truths. They are doubtless romantic, but cannot mislead the judgment or corrupt the taste; their aim being to describe the marvellous works of creation, and to lead the devout mind to say with the divine poet,—

"Great are thy works, Jehovah, infinite
Thy power; what thought can measure thee, or tongue
Relate thee?"

A. B.

Richmond, October, 1858.

CONTENTS.

THE KANGAROO HUNTERS.

CHAPTER I.

The Rector and the Soldier.—The Mayburn Family.—A Mission to India.—The Orphans of Wendon.—Ruth the Unlucky.—Jack's Project.—The Addition to the Mayburn Establishment.

"I am a selfish creature, O'Brien," said Mr. Mayburn, the rector of Wendon, to his invalid friend. "I cannot forbear from coming once more to annoy you with my lamentations, and to ask your counsel, for I am most unhappy. Every object I behold, every word I hear, recalls to my mind my bereavement. I cannot remain in this place after the loss of my beloved wife. She was the moving power of my household. It was she, in fact, who was the pastor and director of the parish, the skilful tutor of her children, the guide and the guardian of her weak and erring husband. Alone, I am unfit for my responsible office; I shudder over the conviction that I am faithless to my vows; I know, O'Brien, that I do not fulfil my duty."

"There is an easy remedy for your distress, my good friend," answered Captain O'Brien; "my advice is, do your duty, and be comforted."

"It is physically impossible, O'Brien," said the mourner. "My nerves are shattered; my health is completely destroyed. I shrink from communion with society; and though I exert myself to give my boys their daily lessons, I would afterwards gladly enclose myself in my study, and live amongst my books."

"No doubt you would," replied O'Brien; "but God did not send us into this world to vegetate in solitude, and bring forth no fruit. Act, Mayburn, I beseech you, man; power comes with action, you know well; and whatever man has done, may be done. Work! work! is the counsel of the worn-out dying soldier to him who has yet the labors of life spread before him."

"But you have no idea how feeble my bodily powers are," groaned the rector.

"I can form a very tolerable idea of your strength," said the captain; "for the last time I was out I saw you plunged up to the knees in the green marsh, regardless of a cold north-east March wind."

"I remember the day well," answered Mr. Mayburn, with animation, "for I was fortunate enough to obtain the eggs of the crested grebe in the marsh. You will not have forgotten that the preceding summer I got a fine specimen of the bird."

"Very well," said his friend; "now, if you were able thus to toil and to endure to save the eggs of a bird, you may surely exert yourself still more to save the soul of a Christian. Go more among your poor; talk to them, help them with your knowledge, and teach them to live happily and die happily. I am not without experience in such work, Mayburn; as long as I was able, I had a little flock of my own; and in secular matters at any rate, was a sort of parish priest among my soldiers. I felt an interest in the history and in the daily life of every man in my company, and was never more at home than in the nooks and corners where my poor fellows dwelt. It was this pleasant and profitable work that Mrs. Mayburn ably accomplished for you, and I see Margaret is treading in her steps; go with her, Mayburn, support her in her virtuous course, and you will discover that life has still its pleasures for you."

"Not here! not here! my dear O'Brien," answered Mr. Mayburn. "Sometimes I determine to relinquish this parish, and accept one of smaller population, where the responsibility would be less; at other moments I am prompted to adopt an entirely opposite course, and to make up for my past wasted life by devoting my remaining days to missionary labors in distant lands, where I might be more stimulated to exertion, in the necessity of action. Give me your advice, O'Brien, on which of these two plans to decide. On the one hand, I have the temptation offered me to exchange for a small living on the north-eastern coast, where I should meet with many ornithological novelties; on the other hand, I know I have still sufficient interest among my old friends to obtain the appointment to some mission in the colonies. I should prefer Northern India or South Australia, both affording rich fields to the naturalist."

"A matter of secondary consideration," said O'Brien, smiling. "But wait a month or two, my good friend; we must not decide hastily on such an important step; and before that time has elapsed, you will have fulfilled the last pious offices for me. Do not be agitated, Mayburn. I know that I am dying; these old wounds have slowly, but successfully, undermined the fortress; it cannot hold out long. But be comforted; I am resigned and calm, nay, I am happy, for I know in whom I trust. Now, Mayburn, to you and to your sweet daughter I must bequeath my wild, half-taught boy. Give him all the book-lore he can be made to imbibe; above all, Mayburn, make him a Christian. To Margaret I intrust his physical education. I should wish him to be fitted to perform such work in this world as it may please God to call him to. I am thankful that I must leave him poor, as he will thus be exempt from the grand temptation, and forced into healthy action. May God direct his labors to the best and wisest end."

The words of his dying friend had for some time a salutary influence over the amiable but vacillating Mayburn. With remorse and shame he looked on his own discontent, and with a brief gleam of energy he turned to the duties of his office; but long habits of self-indulgence in literary pursuits and literary ease were not to be suddenly overcome; and when the grave closed over his faithful friend and wise counsellor, O'Brien, he soon shrunk back into morbid, solitary musings, and gradually sunk into his accustomed indolence. But a waking of remorse induced him to write to his old college friend, the Bishop of ——, to pray that he might be allowed to resign his living, and be appointed to some distant mission.

Mr. Mayburn, though upright in principle and amiable in disposition, was yet unfitted, from his deficiency in firmness, for the responsibilities of his office; but his constitutional timidity and indolence had escaped notice during the lifetime of his valuable and energetic wife, who had directed his actions and concealed his feeble nature. But it was the will of God that she should be suddenly called from him; and, stunned with his loss, he abandoned himself to sorrow and inaction. The death of his valuable friend and counsellor, Captain O'Brien, cut away the last prop of the feeble man, who was now alternately sunk in useless grief or haunted with the horrors of neglected duties.

Pious and eloquent, his people declared he was an angel in the church; but in their humble dwellings his visits, like those of angels, "were short and far between." In his family, it was his pleasure to communicate to his children the rich treasures of learning that he possessed; but the lessons of life, the useful preparation for the battle of the world, he had not the skill or the energy to teach.

His daughter, now sixteen years of age, had been ably instructed by her excellent mother, and possessed good sense and prudence beyond her years. Arthur, the eldest son, one year younger, had benefited by his mother's advice and example equally with his sister, whom he resembled in disposition. His brother Hugh, not yet thirteen years old, was too young to have profited much by instruction, and was more volatile than Margaret and Arthur. But the children were all frank, true, and conscientious; and had yet escaped the temptations and perils of the world.

Gerald, the orphan son of the faithful and attached friend of Mr. Mayburn, Captain O'Brien, was the most weighty charge of his timid guardian; though but twelve years old, he was bold, independent, and forever in mischief; and hourly did Mr. Mayburn groan under his responsibility, for he had solemnly promised to fulfil the duties of a father to the boy, and he trembled to contemplate his incapacity for the office.

"Margaret," said he to his daughter, "I request that you or Jenny will never lose sight of that boy after he leaves my study. I am continually distracted by the dread that he should pull down the old church tower when he is climbing to take the nests of the harmless daws, or that he should have his eyes pecked out by the peacocks at Moore Park, when he is pulling the feathers from their tails."

"Do you not think, papa," answered Margaret, "that you are partly responsible for his mischievous follies? You have imbued him with your ornithological tastes."

"He has no taste, Margaret," replied her father hastily. "He has no judgment in the science. He has never learned to distinguish the Corvidæ from the Columbidæ; nor could he at this moment tell you to which family the jackdaw he makes war with belongs. He is negligent himself, and, moreover, he allures my son Hugh from his serious studies, to join him in rash and dangerous enterprises. He is totally deficient in the qualities of application and perseverance. I have a dim recollection, Margaret, of a childish hymn, written by the pious Dr. Watts, who was no great poet, but was really an observer of the habits of the animal creation. This hymn alludes prettily to the industry of the bee, and if you could prevail on Gerald to commit it to memory, it might suggest reflections on his own deficiencies."

"Papa," said Margaret laughing, "Gerald could repeat 'How doth the little busy bee,' when he was four years old, and I do not think that a repetition of it now would make any serious impression on him."

"He has no taste for the higher range of poetry," said his distressed guardian; "and has too much levity to seek knowledge in the direct paths. What would you think of giving him to learn an unpretending poem by Mrs. Barbauld, which describes the feathered tribes with tolerable accuracy. It commences,

'Say, who the various nations can declare,
That plough, with busy wing, the peopled air!'"

"Gerald is not lazy, papa, he is only thoughtless," said Margaret. "Let us hope that a few years will bring him more wisdom; then he will learn to admire Homer, and to distinguish birds like his good guardian."

Mr. Mayburn sighed. "But what shall I do with the boy," he said, "when my duties summon me to distant lands? I am bewildered with doubts of the future. Will it be right, Margaret, to remove you and my promising boys from country, society, and home, perhaps even from civilization?"

"No, no, papa, you are not fitted for a missionary to savages," answered Margaret, "you must choose some more suitable employment. And if you are bent on quitting England, surely you cannot suppose, whatever may be your destination, that we should consent to be separated from you."

"God forbid that it should be so!" exclaimed the father. "But I cannot but feel, my child, that I have been selfish and negligent. Give me some consolation—tell me that you think I may yet do some good in a strange land. I am persuaded that I shall be better able to exert myself among complete heathens than I am among these cold, dull, professed Christians."

"If you feel this conviction, papa," said Margaret, "it is sufficient. When we earnestly desire to do right, God always provides us with work. We must all try to aid you. And Gerald is now our brother, papa; he must accompany us in our wanderings. The boys anticipate with great delight the pleasures of a sea-voyage, and I myself, though I regret to leave my poor people, enjoy the idea of looking on the wonders of the world."

"Then, Margaret," added Mr. Mayburn, "I must trust you and Jenny to watch that giddy boy, Gerald. Warn him of the dangers that surround him. I should never survive if he were to fall overboard. I promised O'Brien much; but, alas! I have done little."

Margaret engaged to use all needful watchfulness, though, she assured her father, Arthur would care for the young boys; and being now convinced that her father's resolution to leave England was earnest and unchangeable, the young girl, assisted by Jenny Wilson, the old nurse, set about the serious preparations for this important change; and when a mission to a remote part of India was proposed to Mr. Mayburn, he found the whole of his family as ready as he was himself to enter into this new and hazardous undertaking.

"I looked for nothing better, Miss Marget, my darling," said nurse Jenny; "and my poor mistress, lying on her death-bed, saw it all plainly. Says she to me, 'Nurse,' says she, 'your good master will never settle after I'm gone. He'll be for shifting from this place; but mind this, nurse, you'll stick to my childer.' And then and there I said I would never leave ye; 'specially you, Miss Marget; where you go, I must go, and I hope God will spare me to nurse childer of yours. Though where you are to meet with a suiting match I cannot see, if master will choose to go and live among black savages."

"Not so bad as that, nurse," said Margaret, smiling. "I trust that our lot may be cast on a more civilized spot, where we may find many of our own countrymen living among the benighted people we are sent to teach; and even they, though ignorant and degraded, are not absolutely savage, neither are they blacks, my dear nurse."

"Well, my child, you know best," answered Jenny. "But there's a sore task laid out for you, that will have all the work to do. Not but what master is a grand hand at preaching, and can talk wonderful, nows and thens, to poor folks; but he cannot get round them as you can. He never seems to be talking to them as it were face to face, but all like preaching to them out of his pulpit; and somehow he never gets nigh hand to them. But it's God will, and, please Him, we must all do our best; we shall be missed here; and oh, Miss Marget, what will come of poor Ruth Martin? and we promising to take the lass next month, and make a good servant of her. Here's Jack, too; just out of his time, a fair good workman, and a steady lad, and none but you and master to look up to, poor orphans."

"Do not be distressed, nurse," replied Margaret, "I have thought of all my scholars; I have prepared a list of those I wish papa especially to recommend to his successor; and perhaps Mrs. Newton will take Ruth on trial."

"She won't do it, Miss Marget," answered Jenny. "I tried her before, and she flounces, and flames, and says all sorts of ill words again the lass, as how she's flappy and ragged, and knows nothing; and when I asked her what she could expect from childer as was found crying over their poor father and mother lying dead under a hedge; she said outright, she should expect they would turn out vagabonds, like them they belonged to. Yes, she said that; after you had given the poor things schooling for six years."

It was not the least of Margaret Mayburn's pangs, on leaving Wendon, that she must be compelled to abandon the poor children of the parish, whom she had long taught and cared for; and she sighed over the incapacity of the rough orphan girl that she now set out with her faithful nurse to visit.

Ruth and Jack Martin had been found one cold morning of winter in a lane leading to the village of Wendon, sitting by the side of the hedge, weeping over the dead bodies of their parents, who had perished from famine and fever, exposed to the storm of the previous night. The children were conveyed to the workhouse, and from their story, and further inquiries, it was made out that their mother had left a tribe of gipsies to marry a railway navvy, as the children called their father. He was a reckless, drunken profligate; and after losing his arm from an accident which originated in his own carelessness, was dismissed from his employment, and driven to wander a homeless vagrant. The children said they had lived by begging, and had often been nearly starved; but their mother would never let them steal or tell a lie, and she had often cried when their father came to their lodging very drunk, speaking very bad words, and holding out silver money, which their mother would not touch.

But at last he was seized with a bad fever on the road, and, houseless and penniless, they crept under a haystack; from thence the children were sent to the road-side to beg from passengers, or to seek some farmhouse, where charity might bestow on them a little milk or a few crusts of bread; but the poor wife sickened of the same disease which was carrying off her husband, and in their desperation the wretched sufferers dragged themselves to the road which led to the village, in hopes of reaching it, and finding shelter and aid. But it was too late. In the midst of the beating snow, and in the darkness of a winter's night, the man sank down and died. The wretched woman cast herself down beside him, and, overcome by sorrow and long suffering, did not survive to see the morning light.

The sympathy created by this melancholy event procured many warm friends for the orphans. They were fed and clothed, sent to school, and carefully instructed in that pure religion of which they had formerly had but vague notions. Jack, the boy, who was about eleven years of age when they were orphaned, was a thoughtful, industrious lad; for three years he made useful progress at school, and in the last three years, under a good master, he had become a skilful carpenter. Ruth, who was two years younger than her brother, had inferior abilities; she was rough, boisterous, and careless; and was ever the dunce of the school, till at length the schoolmistress begged she might be put to something else, for she declared she made "no hand at learning." She was then placed with an old woman, who daily complained that "the lass was of no use; she was willing enough; but if she was set to wash the cups, she broke them; and she could not even stir the fire but she would poke it out." At fifteen years old, Ruth was a strong, active girl, extremely good-natured, true, and honest, fondly attached to her brother, and devoted to her kind friends at the rectory; yet, certainly, Ruth was no favorite with the wives of the neighboring farmers, who unanimously agreed that she must have "two left hands," she was so awkward in all her undertakings. Under these untoward circumstances, it had been arranged that Ruth should undergo an apprenticeship in the rectory establishment, to fit her for household service. This event was looked forward to by the girl with great delight, and it was with much regret that Margaret set out to announce to her their plan of leaving Wendon, which must necessarily extinguish her hopes of preferment.

There was still another who would deeply feel their loss; and Margaret was accompanied by her brothers, who were anxious to see their untiring assistant, Jack. It was he who gave his useful aid to them in the construction of bows, bats, leaping-bars, and all the wooden appliances of school-boy sports; and above all the people of the village, the boys murmured most that they must part with Jack.

They found the industrious lad busily engaged in making a new crutch for Nanny, the old woman with whom the orphans lived. "You see, Master Hugh," said he, "poor Ruth happened to throw down Nanny's crutch, and then the careless lass fell over it, and snapped it. I reckon it had been a bit of bad wood; but this is a nice seasoned stick I've had laid by these two years for another purpose, and it comes in nicely; for Nanny was cross, and poor Ruth was sadly put about, and this will set all straight."

At this moment, Ruth, who had been sent out to milk Nanny's cow, entered in woful plight. She had neglected to tie Brindle's legs properly, and the animal, irritated by the teasing bark of an ill-taught little dog, had struggled to extricate itself, kicked Ruth into the mud, and the milk-pail after her, and then run off, pursued by its tormentor; and the girl returned with her dress torn and dirty, and her milk-pail empty. Nanny scolded, Jack shook his head, Margaret gently remonstrated with her for her carelessness, and, worst cut of all, the young gentlemen laughed at her. Then Ruth fairly sat down and cried.

"Well, Nanny," said Margaret, "you must look over Ruth's fault this time, for we have some sad news for you all. We are going to leave Wendon."

Jack threw down his work, and Ruth, forgetting her own vexation, held up her hands, crying out, "Not without me, please, Miss Marget. You promised to try and make me good for something; please do, Miss Marget, and I'll pray God to make me of some use to you."

"But, Ruth," said Hugh, "we are going far away from here, across the wide sea, and among people who neither talk, nor look, nor live as we do."

"How many legs have they, Master Hugh?" asked the awe-struck girl.

"Only two legs, and one head, Ruth," answered he, laughing; "and we feel pretty sure that they will not eat us; but, for all that, I am afraid they are a little bit savage, if they be roused."

"Will you be so kind as to tell me, Mr. Arthur," said Jack, "where you may be going really."

Arthur then explained to Jack the plans of Mr. Mayburn, and assured him they all felt a pang at leaving Wendon; and especially they regretted the parting from the children they had themselves assisted to teach.

"Then let us go with you," cried Ruth vehemently.

"Cannot we both work and wait on you? If I stay here I shall be sure to turn out a bad lass. Jack, honey, we'll not be left behind, we will run after Miss Marget and Mr. Arthur."

Jack was thoughtful and silent, while Margaret said to the weeping girl,—"If we had only been removing to any part of England, Ruth, we would have taken you with us, if it had been possible; but we dare not propose such an addition to the family in a long voyage, which will cost a large sum of money for each of us; besides this, we are going to a country where your services, my poor girl, would be useless; for all the servants employed in cooking, house-work, and washing, are men, who bear the labor, in such a hot climate, better than women could."

"If you please, Miss Margaret," said Jack, eagerly, "I have thought of something. Will you be kind enough to tell me the name of the ship you are to go in, and I will get my master to write me out a good testimonial, and then I will seek the captain, to offer to work for my passage and for that of poor Ruth, if you will agree to try her; for you see, Miss Margaret, we must never be parted. And when once we're landed, please God, we'll take care to follow you wherever you may go."

Margaret was deeply affected by the attachment of the orphans; and though she felt the charge of Ruth would be a burden, she promised to consult her father about the plan, and the brother and sister were left in a state of great anxiety and doubt.

As they walked home, Margaret and Arthur talked of Jack's project till they satisfied themselves it was really feasible; and Arthur believed that, once landed in India, the lad might obtain sufficient employment to enable him to support himself and his sister.

"Oh, Jack will be a capital fellow to take with us," said Hugh. "I know papa will consent, for he could always trust Jack to find the birds' nests, and bring away the right eggs, as well as if he had gone himself. Then he is such an ingenious, clever fellow, just the man to be cast away on a desolate island."

"I trust we shall never have occasion to test his talents under such extreme circumstances," said Arthur; "but, if we can manage it, I should really like Jack to form a part of our establishment. As to that luckless wench, Ruth, I should decidedly object to her, if we could be cruel enough to separate them, which seems impossible. But I shall always be haunted with the idea that she may contrive, somehow, to run the ship upon a rock."

"Oh! do let us take Ruth, Meggie," exclaimed Gerald; "it will be such fun. Isn't she a real Irish girl, all wrong words and unlucky blunders. Won't she get into some wonderful scrapes, Hugh?"

"With you to help her, Pat Wronghead," replied Hugh. "But mind, Meggie, she is to go. Papa will say what you choose him to say; and I will cajole nurse out of her consent."

And serious as the charge was likely to become, it was at length agreed that Jack and Ruth should be included in the party with the Mayburns; and the girl was immediately transferred to the rectory, to undergo a short course of drilling previous to the momentous undertaking.

CHAPTER II.

Departure from Wendon.—Embarkation in the Amoor.—Ruth's Adventures in London.—The Deverell Family.—The Pleasures of the Voyage.—Tropical Wonders.—The Flying-fish.—The Stormy Petrel.—The Albatross.—Deverell's Plans.—The Indian Ocean.—A Storm.

Finally the successor of Mr. Mayburn arrived, was initiated in his office, introduced to his new parishioners, and had promised to supply, as well as he was able, the loss which the mourning poor must sustain in the departure of the charitable family. Mr. Mayburn's old friend, the Bishop of ——, himself accompanied the family to London, directed them in the mode of fitting out for the voyage, and for their new residence, and supplied them with letters of instruction as well as of introduction before he left them. Some weeks of delay followed, and several disappointments; but at length they were induced to embark, with nurse Wilson, Ruth, and Jack, on board the Amoor, a good sailing vessel bound to Melbourne, with many passengers; and from thence to Calcutta, with cattle and merchandise; Captain Barton, who commanded the ship, being an old acquaintance of Mr. Mayburn. Established in a large and commodious cabin, Margaret begged that nurse would keep Ruth always with them, for the girl was distracted with the strange objects around her.

"Sit ye down, lass, and hem that apron," said Jenny, in a tone of authority. "Truly, Miss Margaret, I wouldn't go through the last week again to be Queen Victoria herself, God bless her; and all owing to that unlucky lass. Jack is a decent lad, and it's unknown what a help he was about getting the things here safe; but all the folks in London seemed of one mind that she was fitter for a 'sylum than for a creditable gentleman's family. It's no good blubbering about it now, girl; just see and mind what you are about, for there's no police here to look after you."

"Did the police really get hold of her, nurse?" asked Gerald. "What fun!"

"I never took her out for a walk, Master O'Brien," answered Jenny, "but they had their eye on her; they marked her at once as one that needed watching—a simpleton! Why, it was no later than yesterday morning when she worked on me, fool-body as I was, to go with her to see St. Paul's; and what did she do then but start from my arm and run right across a street thronged with cabs, and wagons, and omnibuses. I just shut my eyes and screamed, for I never thought to see her again living; and there was such a hallooing among coachmen and cabmen, and such screaming of women, as was never heard. How they got all them horses to stop is just a miracle; but when I looked again, there was a lot of police holding horses' heads, and one man was hauling Ruth right across; and he had his trouble, for when she heard all that hullabaloo, she was for turning back to me through the thick of it. Oh! Miss Marget, wasn't I shamed out of my life when they fetched her back to me at last, and one fine fellow said I had better lead my daughter in a string."

Ruth giggled hysterically at the recital of her adventure, and when Margaret said to her gravely,—"You behaved very improperly, Ruth, why did you leave your kind friend, Mrs. Wilson?"

"Please Miss Marget," sobbed the girl; "it was a window full of bonnie babbies."

"She's just a babby herself, Miss Marget," said Jenny, wrathfully. "It was a fine toyshop she saw, and she had no more sense but run among carriages to it. She's hardly safe shut up here; see if she doesn't tumble into the sea some of these days."

But when Ruth's curiosity and astonishment had somewhat subsided, the quiet and firm government of Margaret, and the watchful care of Jack, had great power over her; though still the wild boys Hugh and Gerald sometimes tempted her to pry into forbidden places, or to join them in some mischievous frolic.

The greater part of the accommodation of the Amoor was given up to a gentleman of good birth and property, who was emigrating to Australia. He had obtained a grant of an immense tract of land in the very midst of the country, further north than the steps of the colonists had yet reached. To this remote district he was taking his mother, his young sister, and a younger brother who had studied medicine; and besides these, a number of male and female servants, carpenters, smiths, builders, drainers, shepherds, and various workmen likely to be useful in a new colony. These men were accompanied by their wives and children, forming a considerable clan, all depending on their worthy and energetic chieftain. The vast amount of goods brought out by all these emigrants, much that was useless, as must ever be the case, among the useful, had heavily laden the vessel.

The Mayburns and Deverells were drawn together as much by kindred taste as by inevitable circumstances, and they soon became as true friends as if they had been intimately acquainted for years. Edward Deverell, with promptness and practical knowledge, managed the affairs and smoothed the difficulties of the Mayburns; while Mr. Mayburn instructed the ignorant, and, at the desire of the captain, a right-minded man, daily read the morning and evening services publicly—a most beneficial practice, producing order and decorum, and implanting in the minds of the young the seeds of future blessing.

"How truly I should rejoice, dear Margaret," said Deverell, "if we could induce your excellent father to join our expedition. I would then undertake to build a church; and might hope for a blessing on my new colony, if the foundation were so happily laid. The climate is declared to be exceedingly salubrious, much more likely to suit you all than the unhealthy air of India. It would be an inestimable advantage to my dear sister Emma; she has never known the care and tenderness of a sister; she needs a more cheerful companion than her good mother, who has delicate health; and you, Margaret Mayburn, are the model I should wish her to imitate."

"I need a sister quite as much," answered Margaret, "to soften my rough points, and your gentle, gay little Emma charms and interests me; but, alas! papa has accepted a duty which he must not relinquish without a trial to fulfil it. I regret that it should be in such a locality for the sake of my brothers."

"You are right, my dear friend," replied he; "observe how happily they are now engaged. Arthur has looked over the dried plants, and he is now dissecting rabbits with my brother. Hugh and your ingenious Jack are at work with my carpenters, making models of broad-wheeled travelling-wagons and canoes for the rivers. Even the mischievous urchin O'Brien is out of danger when he is engaged with my grooms and herdsmen, in attendance on my valuable horses and cattle. What can these ardent boys find to interest and amuse them in the arid and enfeebling plains of India?"

Margaret knew that if her father heard these arguments, they would certainly agitate him, and might even shake his determination to proceed in the undertaking, which she and Arthur were of opinion he was bound to complete. She therefore begged Deverell to use no further persuasions; but she promised him, that if the Indian mission was beyond the physical or mental strength of her father, she would try to induce him to return to Melbourne, and from thence they would endeavor to make their way to the station of Mr. Deverell, who had promised to leave directions for their progress with his banker at Melbourne, which he proposed to make his mart for business.

It was truly the fact, that in pleasant employment no one found the long voyage tedious. Jack was especially charmed with his increase of knowledge. "You see, sir," said he to Arthur, "I was qualified to make a four-post bedstead, or a chest of drawers, as well as the best of these chaps; but they tell me them sort of things isn't much needed in them forrin parts. But what they've brought along with them is quite another thing: frames for wooden houses, ready to nail up in no time; mills and threshing machines; great, broad-felloed wagons for their rough roads, and boats of all makes. Just look, Mr. Arthur, I've made bits of models of all them things, you see. We can't say but they may turn up useful some day."

Even Ruth the unlucky lost her cognomen, and became popular among the emigrant women; for when kept quietly at regular employment, she could be steady and useful; it was only when she was hurried, or thrown upon her own responsibility, that she lost her head, and blundered into mischief. She nursed the babes tenderly and carefully, helped the poor women to wash their clothes, and for the first time in her life began to believe she might be of some use in the world. Gerald, who always insisted on it that Ruth was not half so bad as she was represented, assured Jenny that all the girl's errors arose from improper management. "You do not appreciate her talents justly, nurse," said he. "She is quite a genius, and ought to have been Irish, only she was born in England. You have wronged poor Ruth; you see she has never drowned a babby yet."

"Well, Master O'Brien, wait a bit, we're not through our voyage yet," said Jenny, oracularly.

"The Ides of March are not gone, she would say," said Hugh.

"I didn't mean to say no such thing, Master Hugh," replied she; "you're so sharp with one. I'm not so daft, but I know March is gone, and May-day ought to be at hand; not that we can see any signs of it, neither leaves nor flowers here, and I cannot see days get any longer. How is it, Master Arthur? Is it because we're atop of the water?"

Arthur endeavored to make Jenny comprehend the natural consequences of their position, now within the tropics, and daily drawing nearer to the equator; but he only succeeded in agitating the mind of the old woman, without enlightening her.

"God help us!" she exclaimed. "Nigher and nigher to the sun! It's downright temptation and wickedness, my dears; and my thought is, one ought to stay where it has pleased Him to plant us. And think ye, Master Arthur, we shall all turn black, like them niggers we saw in London streets."

"No; certainly not, nurse," answered Arthur. "It requires hundreds of years, under a tropical sun, to change the color of Europeans. Besides, the negroes, although we are all children of Adam, are of a distinct race from us. We are certainly not, like the thick-lipped negroes, the descendants of Ham."

"Likely he had been the plainest of Noah's family," said Jenny, "for beauty runs in the blood, that I'll stand to," continued the attached nurse, looking round with complacency on her handsome young nurslings.

To the young voyagers there was an indescribable charm in the novelties which the sea and the air offered to them in the tropical region they had now entered. Now for the first time they beheld the flying-fish rise sparkling from the waves, to descend as quickly; escaping for a short time from its enemies in the waves to expose itself to the voracious tribes of the air, who are ready to dart upon it. And sometimes the elegant little Stormy Petrel, with its slender long legs, seemed to walk the waters, like the fervent St. Peter, from whom it derives its name.

"But is not this bird believed to be the harbinger of storms?" asked Margaret of her father, as he watched with delight the graceful creature he had so often desired to behold.

"Such is the belief of the sailors," answered he, "who have added the ill-omened epithet to its name. It is true that the approach, or the presence, of a gale, has no terror to this intrepid bird, the smallest of the web-footed tribe. It ascends the mountainous wave, and skims along the deep hollows, treading the water, supported by its expanded wings, in search of the food which the troubled sea casts on the surface:

'Up and down! up and down!
From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,
Amidst the flashing and feathery foam,
The Stormy Petrel finds a home,'

as a poet who is a true lover of nature has written. Yet it is not always the harbinger or the companion of the storm, for even in the calmest weather it follows a vessel, to feed on the offal thrown overboard, as fearless and familiar in the presence of man as the pert sparrow of London."

"Here, papa!" cried Hugh, "here is a new creature to add to your collection. I know him at once,—the huge Albatross."

With the admiration of a naturalist, Mr. Mayburn looked on the gigantic bird, continuing its solemn majestic flight untiringly for hours after the ship, its keen eye ever on the watch for any floating substance which was thrown from the vessel, and then swooping heavily down to snatch the prize voraciously, and circling round the ship, again to resume its place at the wake.

"I see now," said he, "why Coleridge wrote,—

'The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play.
Came to the mariner's hollo!'

But the poet mistook the habits of the bird entirely when he added, that 'on mast or shroud it perched.' The difficulty of expanding its wing of five joints, so immensely long, would impede its rising from the mast of a ship; it scrambles along the waves before it can rise above them; and it has been well said, 'The albatross is the mere creature of the wind, and has no more power over itself than a paper kite or an air balloon. It is all wing, and has no muscle to raise itself with, and must wait for a wind before it can get under sail.'"

The family were assembled on deck in the close of the evening, after the fervid heat of an equatorial sun, and they beheld with enjoyment the wonders of the deep; but the old nurse seemed disturbed and awe-struck.

"Every thing seems turned topsy-turvy here," said she. "Days far hotter nor ever I mind them, and May-day not come; fishes with wings, flying as if they were birds, and birds walking atop of the water, as if it were dry land. It's unnatural, Miss Marget, and no good can come on it, I say."

"Ah! if you were but going with us, Mrs. Wilson," said Charles Deverell; "then I would engage you should see wonders. You should see beasts hopping about like birds, and wearing pockets to carry their young ones in; black swans and white eagles; cuckoos that cry in the night, and owls that scream by day; pretty little birds that cannot sing, and bees that never sting. There the trees shed their bark instead of their leaves, and the cherries grow with the stone outside."

"Now, just hold your tongue, Mr. Charles," answered nurse, angrily. "Your brother would scorn to talk such talk; but you're no better than Master Gerald, trying to come over an old body with your fairy stories."

"It is quite true, Mrs. Wilson," said Emma Deverell, "and I wish you were all going with us into this land of enchantments. Then, Margaret, dear Margaret, how happy we should be. You should be queen, and we all your attendant sylphs, and

'Merry it would be in fairy-land,
Where the fairy birds were singing.'"

"Merry for you, little wild goose," said her brother Edward; "but Charles has told you the fairy birds do not sing; and our sylph-life will be one of hard labor for many months before we make our fairy-land and court lit to receive our queen. Then we must try and lure her to us. How shall we contrive it, Emma?"

Margaret smiled and shook her head. "Too bright a dream," said she, "to be safely indulged in. But you must tell us all you propose to do, and we will watch your progress in fancy."

"Oh, do tell us all about it, Edward," said Hugh. "But, first of all, make a dot upon my map, that we may know where you are when we come to seek you."

"Very prudent, Hugh," answered Edward, "though I doubt the accuracy of my dot on this small map; but I suppose I shall not be more than a hundred miles wrong, and that is nothing in the wilds of Australia."

"But I see you will be close on this great river that falls into the Darling," said Hugh; "so if we only follow up the rivers, we must find you."

"You would not find that so easy a task as it seems, my boy," replied Edward. "Neither are we, as you suppose, close on that river, but fifty miles from it; but we have a charming little river laid down on our plan, which we must coax and pet in the rainy season, that it may provide us with water in the drought."

"You have a most extensive tract," said Arthur, looking on the plan.

"Oh, yes," said Charles, "we propose, you know, to build a castle for ourselves, and a town for our vassals."

"There lies my castle," said Edward, pointing to some large packages which contained the frame of his future abode. "As for the town, I am not without hopes to see it rise some time, and do honor to its name."

"Deverell, I conclude?" observed Arthur.

"So my mother wishes the station to be called," replied he; "but my own 'modest mansion,' I should wish to name Daisy Grange."

"I never understood that the daisy was indigenous in Australia," said Mr. Mayburn.

"Certainly it is not, sir," answered Edward; "but we have fortunately brought out a number of roots of this dear home flower, and will try to domesticate them in our new country; though I fear they will be apt to forget their native simplicity, and learn to flaunt in colors."

"I know why you wish to call your house Daisy Grange, Edward," said Emma, nodding sagaciously at Margaret, and the general laughter showed the little girl had surmised correctly.

"A very pretty and delicate compliment," said Mr. Mayburn: "our own glorious Chaucer speaks of the daisy as—

'La belle marguerite,
O commendable flower, and most in minde;'

and the noble Margaret of Valois, a Christian and a scholar, had the daisy, or marguerite, worn in honor of her name, and is herself remembered as the 'Marguerite of Marguerites'."

And thus they amused themselves till, without storm or delay, they had crossed the equator, and entered the South Sea, when a new source of enjoyment was opened to Mr. Mayburn, who had long desired to view the constellations of the south; and favorable weather enabled them to study astronomy every night. Never for a moment did the voyage seem tedious in the cheerful society of the happy families, and all things concurred to render it agreeable. The provisions were excellent, fresh meat and bread, with milk in abundance, prevented them from suffering from change of diet; and constant employment made the moments fly. In the morning the young Mayburns, with Emma Deverell, read with Mr. Mayburn, and studied Hindostanee; and in the evening they walked on deck, listening to the pleasant anecdotes told by Edward Deverell, who had been a great traveller. Then they had music, and occasionally dancing; and if sometimes a light gale tossed the vessel, or swept the dinner from the table, the contretemps caused mirth rather than wailing. Mr. Mayburn himself, busily engaged in teaching, lecturing, or in writing and delivering simple sermons to the poor emigrants, recovered his cheerfulness, and once more began to confide in himself.

And so, in good time, they reached the Cape, and Jenny discovered that now, "when May-day was turned," it was far colder than any May-day in England, and put on her warm shawl to land with her young charge to see the town, and to look after that "feckless Ruth." It was a great pleasure to the ardent young people to set their feet on the shores of Africa, to see the vessels of many nations crowding the harbor, and the people of many countries thronging the busy streets, to make excursions to the mountains and vine-covered hills around, and to collect the botanical treasures of a new and fertile region. Mr. Deverell was more usefully engaged with his herdsmen and shepherds, in completing his stock of cattle and sheep, and in making other purchases for his great undertaking; and thus many days were spent pleasantly and profitably.

Once more embarked, a shade of melancholy was perceptible—among the young especially—as they daily approached nearer to the shores where they must be separated; for the two families, so kindred in taste and disposition, had become truly attached during their long voyage; and notwithstanding the pleasant prospect of new scenes and pursuits, they were less cheerful every day. Even Edward Deverell, with his mind crowded with plans for clearing, draining, cultivating, sheep-shearing, and tallow-melting, felt deep regret at the prospect of separation from the lively, intelligent boys, and their amiable and sensible sister; and Margaret herself, usually so composed and contented, sighed to think she must lose the valuable counsel of Edward, the friendly protection of his mild invalid mother, and the warm affection of the sprightly Emma; and every evening, as they walked on deck, they indulged hopes, and sketched plans of meeting again.

After they had entered the Indian Ocean, they had no longer the favorable and pleasant breezes they had so long enjoyed, and while Hugh and Gerald were anxiously looking out for pirates, and talking of Malays, of prahus, and of kreeses, the sailors were watching the signs of the sky, wrestling with contrary winds, and guarding against sudden gales.

"How vexatious," said Hugh, "to be drifted about every way but the right way, and to have all this noise and splashing and dashing, and yet nothing to come of it. Now if we had a grand regular storm, and a shipwreck, and were all cast away on an uninhabited island, it would be an adventure; there would be some life in that."

"More likely there would be death in it," said Margaret. "Do not be so presumptuous, unthinking boy!"

"I should enjoy the thing amazingly myself, Margaret," said Gerald; "so don't you look grave about it. Or what would you think, Hugh, if a great fleet of prahus were to surround us and try to board us, while we, armed and ready for them, were to pour our shots into them, and put the rogues to flight. But first we would take care to capture the fierce pirate captain, and take possession of all his treasures. Then wouldn't we enter Melbourne in triumph, and have the robber hauled up to the gallows."

"Pirates do not usually carry their treasures about in their prahus," said Arthur; "nor do I think it is at all desirable that we should encounter a piratical fleet. Where are your guns to pour down destruction on the foe, Master Gerald?"

"Oh, murther!" cried the wild boy, "wasn't I forgetting the guns! Now, what for did we come in a merchantman, as quiet and dull as a quaker? Well, well, Arty, we have plenty of brave fellows, and our own rifles and pistols, besides knives and dirks. We should defend ourselves like Britons, I'll be bound."

But the next day there was no cause to complain of dulness, for a real gale came on, and all was confusion. The wind roared, the waves rose tremendously, the ship rolled fearfully in a heavy sea, and before night the maintop-gallant was carried away. Then sail was reduced; but louder and stronger grew the tempest amid the darkness of night. Mast after mast was rent away, and the crippled vessel continued to drift helplessly for twenty-four hours, when the violence of the gale began to abate. Signals of distress were made, but long in vain. At length a vessel appeared in sight, and distinguishing their signals, made up to them. It was bound to Melbourne, which was now within a few days' sail, and, with as much kindness as difficulty, the stranger succeeded in taking the disabled Amoor in tow, and bringing her into port in safety.

CHAPTER III.

Melbourne.—The Squatters.—The Two Convicts.—A Painful Separation.—The Golden Fairy.—Ruth's Misfortunes.—A Nocturnal Alarm.—Ruth's Confession.—The Ship on Fire.

Weary, distressed, and suffering, the passengers on the Amoor gladly landed on the busy wharf, and were conveyed to Melbourne, where Mr. Mayburn and his daughter, Mrs. Deverell and Emma, were settled in a handsome hotel; but Mr. Deverell and his people, with the young Mayburns, remained at the port to land the cargo and inspect the damage done by the storm. It was soon ascertained that the loss must be considerable—a number of sheep and cattle, besides a valuable horse, had been swept into the sea; and all that had been saved were in bad condition; but it was to be hoped a short rest at Melbourne might restore these, and fit them for their long journey into the interior. Then Deverell had to search for experienced drovers to guide and assist his own men; and finally, he undertook to inquire for the first vessel to Calcutta that could accommodate Mr. Mayburn and his family, as some months must elapse before the disabled Amoor could be prepared to resume the voyage.

The girls looked out from the windows of the hotel with admiration at the broad and peopled streets, the handsome churches, and the European aspect of a town on the spot which, but a few years before, had been a lonely wilderness; but the pious Mr. Mayburn called them away to unite with him in thanksgiving for this their first experience of the progress of divine and social knowledge, even into the farthest regions of the earth.

"The spirit which has clothed the desert with the blessings of peace and abundance," said he, "and has planted the gospel of life in a newly-discovered world, will by God's blessing spread onwards like a fertilizing river till the word of the Lord be accomplished; for the blessed day draweth nigh when the scattered people of God shall be gathered into one fold, and the great shepherd shall say, 'Well done.'"

"God speed the day, dear papa," said Margaret. "But we must not be mere watchers; we must all be workers. Wherever we go, we shall find an untilled field, and we must all put our shoulders to the plough."

"You are right, my child," replied he, with a sigh; for though ever willing to fulfil the duty lying before him, Mr. Mayburn wanted resolution to seek out the hard work of the fervent missionary of Christianity. Evening brought to them the fatigued young men with satisfactory news. A vessel, the Golden Fairy, which had landed a party of gold-diggers from England, was going forward to Calcutta with sheep and merchandise. The captain, very glad to obtain passengers, readily agreed to accommodate Mr. Mayburn's family; he was to sail in three days, so no time must be lost in making preparations.

"As to my own affairs," added Edward Deverell, "I have succeeded in finding quarters for all my live-stock. The cattle, horses, pigs, and sheep were certainly somewhat unruly; but the women and children ten times more troublesome. Such an amount of bundles, bags, baskets, cradles, and cats as they have brought! How we have housed them all is a miracle; and how we are to get them up the country is a puzzling problem. Finally, I have bought a train of wagons, and engaged two gentlemen as guides, who are her majesty's prisoners, released on parole; in fact, two ticket-of-leave convicts."

A scream from Emma, and a groan from her mother, followed this information.

"Surely you have not been so rash, Edward," said Mrs. Deverell. "Let us make our way rather with our own people only. Consider the contamination of such society for our poor virtuous followers. Besides, it is but too probable we may be robbed and murdered by such wretches."

"It is an inevitable evil, mother," answered Edward, "for we cannot attempt the journey without guidance. These men have behaved well since their transportation; they are brothers—poachers—who, like many in their situation, have erred rather through ignorance and weakness than depravity. At least, such is the report of the overlooker who recommended them. They have been out before in the interior with squatters, and know the valleys of the Murray and the Darling, beyond which our ultra-frontier tract is spread. I have been to the Colonial Office, and have obtained the necessary forms for taking possession of fifty thousand acres of waste land, as it is called, for a long lease of years. And now, mother, we are, according to the legalized and elegant form, squatters."

"Colonists, my son; I cannot bear the strange, uncouth word squatters," said Mrs. Deverell.

"Nevertheless, mamma," said Edward, laughing, "it is official language. We may call ourselves, if we choose, landed gentry; but the world of Australia will rank us only as part of the squattocracy."

"Am I a squatter?" asked little Emma, in dismay; and great was the mirth of her favorite friends, Hugh and Gerald, when Emma was pronounced to be legally a squatter.

Early next morning the two convict guides were admitted to receive their final directions from Mr. Deverell, and were regarded with some uneasiness and much curiosity. One was a rough country lad, dressed in a fustian suit and a fur cap, rude in manner, but of pleasing, open countenance: the other, who was older, had a shabby-genteel appearance; he had discarded his convict's habit, and had expended the earnest-money received from Mr. Deverell in an old suit of black clothes, and a very bad English hat, which he had placed on his head in a jaunty style.

"Please to show me your district by map, sir," said he, bowing at the same time in a very conceited manner to the ladies. "You must look to me, cartee blank, sir; for you see, sir, my brother is not intelligible; he has not had the blessing of eddication."

"And your education, my friend," said Edward Deverell, "has not been a blessing to you, I fear. Have you not rather turned it to evil?"

"Quite the contrairy, sir," said the man. "I look forrard to its helping me up-hill in this free country. Why, sir, a man born anunder an hedge may top over quality and ride in his carriage here, if he can only come round his parts of speech rightly. But Davy will stick where he is, for he never could tell an X from an anpassy."

"It's all true," said the rough rustic, "I'se no scholar like Bill, master, but I'se do my best for ye, and glad to get out from amang yon rogues. It's hard for a lad to be sorted with such company for just sniggling a hare."

"Ensnaring, David," said his brother, pompously; "sniggling is colloquial."

"Sniggling, you know, Bill," answered David, "our lads call it in t' north country; and little harm is there in't I say, that they should send a poor lad amang thieves and cut-throats. But, please God, I'se out of their way, and it will be mony a day afore I come nigh them again."

"You seem a simple, though ignorant youth," said Mr. Mayburn, "and I cannot understand how it happened you were so severely punished for poaching; though doubtless it is an offence against the law."

Bill laughed contemptuously as he replied for his brother,—"You see, sir, Davy was always a fool, or we need not both have been expostulated to this place. Our master always called him David Simple, and sure enough, if it had not been for his downright idiosyncrasy, we might have got clear off; but nothing would serve him but to show fight."

"Now, just be quiet, Bill, man," said David; "it was for thee I stood out. You'se hear all, master; I'se tell t' truth. Bill had his gun, and brought down a few birds, and I were knocking a few rabbits over, and it chanced to be a moonshiny night, when out pops a keeper, and fells Bill down with a club; and I heard him shout out to me, as how his arm was broken. That aggravated me bitter, and up I ran, and leathered t' fellow well with my stick. Then Bill got up and ran off, but I was fain to stop, and give t' keeper a hiding; but he roared out so loud that two more chaps came up, and first took me, and then went off after Bill. When they got to our lodging, he made as how he knew nought about it, but they found birds and his gun underneath t' bed; and there was his arm all black and blue, but not broken, as he said. So off they carried us to prison, and Bill wanted me to say as how he that were with me were Jack Kay, an auld poacher; but I couldn't swear away a man's charackter, and t' keeper took his oath Bill wanted to shut him, and I were no better; so they sent us both over t' water. It's a thousand pities for Bill, for he's a scholar, cute as he is about sniggling."

David was the favorite of the family, who did not admire the flowery language and cunning look of cute Bill; but among a horde of lawless men, Edward Deverell congratulated himself that he had been fortunate enough to obtain two men less depraved than might have been expected.

It was with a sinking heart, oppressed with strange forebodings, that Margaret looked on the large, dark, dirty and gloomy ship honored by the inappropriate name of the Golden Fairy. She grieved for the separation from the new friends that the whole family had learned to love so well, and she shrunk from the prospect of unknown difficulties and dangers, when all decision and responsibility would be thrown upon her, from the helpless character of her beloved but irresolute parent. During the first voyage, the powerful and energetic character of Edward Deverell had swayed the judgment of Mr. Mayburn; but in future, Margaret felt she could only look to her young brother Arthur for aid.

"Yet have I not a greater aid?" she repeated to herself. "Forgive me, my heavenly Father! Thou art my friend and my counsellor! Let me ever turn to Thee in my trials, and I must be in safety." And thus, with a heart ever recognizing the presence and relying on the love of a watchful God, Margaret Mayburn walked on her way steadily and fearlessly.

The parting of the two families was very painful, yet they cheered themselves with the hope so unquenchable in the young. They talked confidently of their future meeting, the boys traced over and over again on the map the route they proposed to take to Daisy Grange; and, but for Margaret's firmness, even Mr. Mayburn, at the last moment, would have relinquished his hopes of spreading the gospel in the East, to follow the new colonists into the dreary untrodden deserts.

There was an appearance of neglect and disorder in the Golden Fairy that was repugnant to the taste of the Mayburns, after being accustomed to the trim, orderly arrangements of the Amoor; Edward Deverell pointed out to Captain Markham several necessary changes which must be made for the comfort of passengers who paid him so handsomely, and was annoyed to perceive that his suggestions were received slightingly and almost contemptuously. He himself procured more conveniences for the cabin of his friends, and he besought Margaret and Arthur to be firm and determined with Markham, who seemed careless, and, he suspected, addicted to drinking. Now, when too late, he regretted that he had not induced the family to remain at Melbourne for the sailing of the mail packet; but Arthur had been anxious for his father to hasten to his mission, lest his vacillating nature should lead him to relinquish it. Besides which, the throng of gold-diggers made the cost of living at Melbourne a serious consideration.

Finally, with tears and sorrowful hearts, the friends took leave of each other, with the remote chance that favorable circumstances might bring them together again; and it was not till the fair sunny shores of Australia had faded from their sight, that the voyagers retired to their cabin to endeavor to resign themselves to their changed circumstances.

The want of order in their new home was particularly trying to the scarcely-reclaimed Ruth. She had learned to be useful among the emigrant women in the neatly-ordered Amoor; but she soon relapsed into her usual heedless habits, amidst the scattered packages and general confusion in the Golden Fairy. She stumbled over boxes which were not stowed in their proper places, she was thrown down by some terrified sheep that had escaped from its pen, she trod to death some rambling chicken that had found its way into the cabins, or she destroyed the cups and plates by officiously spreading the table in the midst of a gale, though she had been warned of the consequences.

"Margaret," said Mr. Mayburn, who had been uneasily watching the girl's unlucky movements, "I am of opinion that poor Ruth should be subjected to some restraint I observe that the inevitable result of her undertakings is destruction. She is a curious study; nor can I solve the mystery why she should always do wrong when she designs to do right I am alarmed, Margaret; I eat my food in terror, lest she should have poured laudanum into the curry, or scattered arsenic over the pudding."

"Have no fear, papa," answered Margaret. "Ruth is never intrusted with culinary preparations: the cook is too cross to allow her to touch any of his dishes, nor has she the means of procuring any of those dreaded poisons. I do not fear that she will harm any one but herself with her heedlessness; but, poor girl, she is covered with bruises and cuts from falls. Nor is she entirely to blame, for the cabins are filled up with packages which Arthur says ought to be stowed in the hold. We must, however, make up our minds to be inconvenienced for the short time I trust we shall be shut up in this prison."

"That I could do, my child," answered he; "but I fear Markham is not a man of understanding to depend on in emergency. This is a sea of perils, of storms and pirates. What would become of us if any of these dangers assailed us? Arthur, you look disturbed; you think with me, that Markham is unfit for his situation."

"Truly, papa, I have some doubts of him," replied Arthur. "I think he must be an experienced sailor, for he has made this voyage many times; and I should not have lost confidence in him, if I had not actually seen him intoxicated. And I fear he is utterly unprincipled, for he wanted us to join him in his nightly revels. Now, Margaret, if a storm should come on in the night, I feel assured that he would be incapable of giving orders."

"And a pretty set of queer-looking boys he has fished up at Melbourne," said Gerald, "to man the ugly ship. Hugh and I have marked our men, and haven't they rogue written on their black brows!"

"But, Gerald, is it not somewhat unkind to form so hasty a judgment?" said Margaret. "These sailors are strangers; why do you class them as rogues?"

"Because, Meggie," said Hugh, "Gerald saw with his own eyes a lot of fellows in their yellow convict dress brought up for Markham to choose a crew from, for all his own men had deserted to go to the diggings. And we both agree that he must have picked out the most villanous-looking of the lot. Now, just come up with us, Meggie, and take a look at the fellows, and you shall hear what Jack says."

Margaret went on deck with her brothers, to walk round the disorderly place; and, under the pretext of examining the various parts of the ship, she carefully marked the faces of the men she encountered, and could not deny that they were not only coarse and bold, but that most of them had the fierce, sinister, lowering expression which usually distinguishes the convict. She stopped to speak to Jack, who was busily engaged finishing a model he had begun at Melbourne, of one of the light-hung, commodious, broad-wheeled travelling wagons Mr. Deverell had bought at that place.

"I could easily make one for you, Miss Margaret," said Jack, "if it were needed; but they tell me you'll want no wheeled-carriages yonder. More's the pity. I wish master had been persuaded to stay with Mr. Deverell. I don't half like this, for, oh! Miss Margaret," added he, looking around, "we've got among a bad lot."

"What have we to fear, Jack?" asked she, pale with fear.

"Don't be down-hearted, miss," said the lad; "but I doubt we may have awkward work; for when Captain Markham is in his cups, everybody's master. But please God to send us fair winds, we shall soon get through the voyage."

"We must pray for His help, Jack," said Margaret; "and let us avoid these men as much as possible. You, Jack, as well as my brothers, must remain below; better endure confinement than encounter wickedness."

"And please, Miss Margaret," continued Jack, "would you ask Mrs. Wilson to mind and keep Ruth close; for these saucy fellows amuse themselves with sending her on some foolish errand, and getting her into mischief. I near had a fight with that big brute, the mate, for pitching her over a hencoop; but Wilkins, that little sharp fellow at the masthead, got me away."

Margaret and Arthur had many long and serious conversations on their uncomfortable position, particularly when their voyage was retarded by the contrary winds of that uncertain sea. Then the family secluded themselves in the two crowded cabins appropriated to their use, and endeavored, by prayer and regulation of the mind, to prepare themselves for the dangers into which such an ill-ruled vessel might be hurried.

After a day of great vexation, occasioned by the carelessness of Ruth, who had, by some mischievous device of the sailors, let all the poultry loose, and had been compelled by the violent captain to hunt them up from every corner of the vessel, the girl had been summoned before Margaret and Jenny, to be rebuked for her thoughtless conduct. She wept, and promised to improve, and was sent to her berth, Nurse declaring that she had made up her mind never to lose sight of her all the next day. Then, after meeting for prayers in Mr. Mayburn's cabin, they returned, to seek such repose as their close, uncomfortable berths afforded.

It might have been two or three hours after this, when Margaret awoke with a strange feeling of oppression and fear, which she vainly attempted to shake off. At length, she called out from her berth, "Nurse, are you awake? Will you go on deck with me for a few minutes? I long for the refreshment of the night air, for the cabin is more suffocating than usual to-night. Surely a storm must be at hand, for the air is positively scorching."

Jenny yawned and murmured, till at length, becoming aware of the request of her young mistress, she scrambled from her awkward berth; but no sooner was she on her feet, than, thoroughly awakened, she exclaimed, "God have mercy on us! for there must be something on fire. I smell and feel it must be so!"

Margaret sprang up, trembling in every limb, but firm in heart, to rush through the door that separated the cabins, and arouse her father and brothers. Jenny, in the mean time, opened the outer door, and then the smell of burning wood was plainly perceptible. While Mr. Mayburn and his sons hastily got ready, Margaret proceeded to the cabin of Capt. Markham, and knocked loudly in her fright, crying out almost unconsciously as she knocked, "Fire! fire!"

"Who calls fire?" cried Markham, with a bitter oath. "Who dares to say that?" and his head appeared from the cabin door. His voice was husky and broken, and Margaret feared he was intoxicated and might not comprehend her, as she rapidly narrated her observations and her fears. Deep and horrible were the curses of the wicked man, as he staggered forward, screaming and yelling for the watch. That there was any watch in this disorderly establishment, Margaret doubted. She hurried back to her father; and they were soon alarmed by the sounds of dreadful curses, the trampling of many feet, the ringing of bells, and the cries of the disturbed and terrified sheep. Arthur and Hugh were sent up to ascertain the fact of danger, and they found the lazy crew effectually roused to action; lanterns were flying about in different directions; and at length the fatal cry was heard, "Fire in the after-hold!"

CHAPTER IV.

Insubordination of the Sailors.—Rapid Progress of the Fire.—The Boats lowered.—Ruth's Prize.—A Man saved.—Black Peter.—The Adventure of a Reprobate Crew.—A Dangerous Comrade.

Then the harsh voice of Markham was heard pouring out orders, loud, but almost inarticulate with rage and drunkenness; while, regardless of his awful situation, with fearful blasphemy he imprecated curses on the negligence which had caused the accident, and on the tardiness of action among his insubordinate crew. At length the fire-engine was got to work; lengths of leather hose were stretched down to the burning hold; buckets were rapidly passed from hand to hand; and the splashing of water was followed by the hissing of the flames.

The four young men joined the sailors and worked manfully at the engine or with buckets, while Mr. Mayburn, alternately trembling, weeping, and despairing, and then, in earnest prayer, regaining his firmness and resignation, occupied the care and attention of Margaret almost entirely. Jenny, with practical good sense, was collecting the most valuable part of their property.

"If we be not burnt to death first, Miss Marget," she said; "Jack tells me we shall be took off in boats, God help us! so it's time to be making ready. Come, lass!" to Ruth, "and tie this bag. What ails ye, you simpleton? What are you staring round in that fashion for?"

Ruth was gazing about with a wild expression of terror in her eyes, and, unmindful of the injunctions of Mrs. Wilson, she suddenly threw down the bag, and fell on her knees before Mr. Mayburn, crying out, "Ah, master, will they hang me? I didn't think it would burn us all alive! I couldn't find it again, try all I would."

"Unfortunate girl," said Mr. Mayburn, "have you lost your senses, or what have you done? Speak the truth."

"I will tell truth, master," sobbed the girl. "It was when I were lating up them bonnie chickens as had got out, and big Peter tied a rope across in yon passage for me to tummel ower, and I rolled down t' ladder into that big, dark place where they keep great bales and barrels, and all manners of things; my lantern was broken and my candle was lost. I got mysel' gathered up, and I groped about for t' candle, but I couldn't find it, and I got sadly flayed in that dark hole, so I climbed up and said nought to nobody; but, oh, master, I couldn't get to sleep, for it came into my head, may be my candle might have set some of them bundles in a low, and we might all be burned in our beds, and me not saying a word alike, for fear."

"God forgive you, Ruth," said her master. "Pray for mercy; and if it please Him to save us in this fearful hour of peril, never forget the misery and destruction your carelessness has caused."

The penitent and affrighted girl shook in every limb, and Margaret kindly soothed and prayed with her till she calmed her agitation. Then the young and thoughtful daughter said,—

"Papa, we must not remain inclosed in this suffocating cabin. Let us go on deck, and if no other hope remains, we will demand a boat, that we may escape from a horrible death."

"Lead the way, my child," said Mr. Mayburn, "and I will follow you, as I ever do; for I feel utterly helpless alone."

They proceeded to the deck, followed by Jenny and Ruth loaded with packages; and when they reached the scene of terror and confusion, they were embarrassed among piles of boxes, barrels, and bales, which were continually drawn up from below, the bales which were blazing being immediately thrown overboard.

By the light of the torches, Margaret discovered among the throng her young brothers, busily employed in hauling ropes and carrying buckets; they were heated with exertion and blackened with smoke. O'Brien had even got his hair singed with the flames. Still untired, they would have continued their efforts, but all seemed ineffectual, from the total want of subordination and unanimity among the sailors. Mr. Mayburn walked up to Captain Markham, who stood aloof from the rest, in a perfect state of frenzy, from fear, anger, and intoxication. He continued to shout aloud contradictory and absurd orders, which were utterly unheeded by the lawless crew; each man doing what he chose, and nothing being done effectually.

"The fire is certainly progressing, Captain Markham," said Mr. Mayburn. "Let me entreat you to issue orders for some means of providing for the safety of so many human beings all unfit for death. We, who are your passengers, demand the means of escape."

With a fearful oath, the wretch said his passengers might care for themselves; he had enough to do to save his ship; and save it he would, if it cost him half the crew.

"I'll pitch the dogs into the fire," said he, "if they do not soon extinguish it; and not a man shall leave the Golden Fairy living."

"There's not many will do that," cried the audacious mate, "if they do not look sharp. The fire has just reached the tallow hogsheads, man, and where will your ship be then? Come along, lads, we can do no more; so let every fellow lay his hands on what he likes best, and lower the boats now or never."

The call was readily responded to, in spite of the threats of the infuriated captain; and though the flames were now heard roaring below, and were even visible in some parts, the after-deck was still uninjured; and from thence the boats were lowered. Arthur and Jack went up to the men to request that a boat, or at all events seats in one of the boats, might be given to their party, who would be willing to reward the men for any trouble they occasioned. The insolent mate, who seemed to have assumed the command of the rest, laughed at the request.

"Charity begins at home!" cried he. "We have no places to spare. Come on, my lads! lower the biscuit and the brandy casks. I'll manage the strong box. Out of my way, gentry. If you say another word we'll pitch you all into the sea—men and women."

"There's no hope of our getting a boat to ourselves, Mr. Arthur," said Jack, "for they 're all afloat now, and they'll soon have them off; so I would say, if you'd help a bit, we should set about getting up a raft as fast as we can—here are plenty of spare spars about."

When Markham saw the men preparing to forsake the vessel, he became more furious than ever, and seizing the mate by the collar, he swore he would have him put in irons. But his attempts were useless against the powerful villain, who flung him on one side like a noxious reptile; and the rest of the remorseless wretches, to rid themselves at once of the opposition of the violent drunkard, hurled him down into the flames, which were already bursting through the crevices of the deck.

"I can't stand that," cried Wilkins, one of the sailors, coming up to Jack; "I'se not the chap to turn my back on my comrades; but I've never committed wilful murder, and I'll just cut away from a gang of such deep-dyed rogues, and join ye, my honest fellow. Come, I'se ready to lend a hand."

A helping hand was truly desirable in their extremity of distress; but Mr. Mayburn shrank from the fierce, rough aspect of the convict sailor, and besought Arthur, in a low tone, to reject any association with crime and infamy.

"Be satisfied, my dear father," answered he, "I will do nothing unadvisedly; but if this man shrinks from evil and turns to good, how shall we excuse ourselves if we force him back to destruction? Besides, it is now too late; see, the first boat has already deserted the ship."

With loud cheers, the most daring of the crew headed by the mate, rowed off in the long boat, and were soon lost in the darkness that shrouded all except the fearful space around the burning ship. The second boat followed, the hardened men turning a deaf ear to the entreaties of the passengers whom they had abandoned on the wreck. They refused even to aid them in lowering their hastily-constructed and unsafe raft, but laughed and sneered at the rude workmanship.

But the flames, fed by the hogsheads of tallow in the hold, now blazed up through the cabin windows, and bursting through the decks, ran along with fatal rapidity, momentarily threatening the distressed family with a dreadful fate. It was now that the cool prudence and skill of their faithful friend Jack rescued them. His observing eye had noted the means adopted by the sailors; he had tools and appliances; he arranged and divided the labor, of which even the women had their share; and the rude raft was at length successfully lowered. A few necessaries were hastily thrown upon it, including a cask of biscuit and one of water, which Wilkins at great hazard had obtained; he had also brought up a small barrel of rum, but Arthur peremptorily refused to take it, and, to end all discussion, flung it into the sea, and firmly told Wilkins, he would rather leave him to perish on the burning ship, than carry him away with such a temptation to evil.

The man grumbled unavailingly, but at last returned to his duty. Nothing more could be secured, except a few ropes, and spars, with some tools to repair the raft. Then a spare sail was cast over the stowage, and, one after another, Mr. Mayburn and the trembling women were let down; the active boys quickly followed. Jack and Wilkins were the last to descend from their perilous position, where they had been so surrounded by the flames, now crawling up the masts, that Margaret dreaded every moment they should fall victims; but they happily alighted on the lumbering raft in safety. Then oars were taken up, and no time was lost in pushing off as far as possible from the ill-fated Golden Fairy; nor did they pause even to look round till they were at a safe distance, when they stood off for a few minutes to contemplate the splendid and frightful spectacle.

Wilkins now confessed to them that there were some barrels of gunpowder concealed in the vessel, which the reckless sailors had smuggled from Melbourne for their own purposes; for it had been their fixed intention, at a favorable opportunity, to murder the captain and passengers, or land them on some desert island; and to take possession of the ship for piratical enterprises in the Indian Ocean. The knowledge that this powder was in the ship had hastened their flight from the certain consequences, and Wilkins was surprised that the catastrophe had been so long averted. But now, as they watched the blackened ribs of the vessel, through which the intense flame glowed, while clouds of smoke, myriads of sparks, and burning flakes, rose from the wreck, a loud explosion almost deafened them; another and another succeeded; then blazed up a mass of flame, which seemed to rise to the very clouds for a few minutes, followed by utter darkness and silence.

"May God, in his infinite mercy, still preserve the weak creatures he has so miraculously delivered," said Mr. Mayburn, devoutly. "We were face to face with death, and never, my children, can the crackling, roaring sound of that fierce and unconquerable conflagration fade from my recollection. We had not the consolation of the martyrs who suffered for the faith, and who could look on the flames as the brief path to eternal glory. We were summoned in the midst of life's cares and frailties, unwillingly, fearfully, to be dragged to doom; and He spared us, that we might better prepare to appear before His tribunal. Blessed forever be His holy name!"

Solemnly and earnestly rose the Amen from the rescued. Even the hardened convict lowered his voice as he said, with levity, to Jack, "That was a canny bit prayer; will 'it help us ony, think ye?"

"Yes, Wilkins," said Jack, "I do believe that God never fails to help them who pray to Him. And some day, my man, you will be glad to believe it too."

Wilkins said no more, but he often remembered the new, strange words he had heard poured out amidst that horror of darkness.

"Now, Captain Arthur," cried out Hugh, "please to say where we are, and whither we are to go?"

"I wish I could determine where we are," answered Arthur; "but we have been so tossed about for the last two days, that I have no idea of our position. Certainly we are out of our regular course."

"If Bully Dan were right," said Wilkins, "we ought to be now a good bit north of Swan River, and among islands and reefs puzzling enough at noonday; and in this black darkness it's odd that we ever see land again. If any on ye had thought of an anchor, we might have laid off till day."

There was nothing but patience and resignation for the voyagers. The sea was less agitated than it had been during the day, and they drifted steadily over the waves; but in what direction they could not determine; for such was the confusion of their embarkation, and such the darkness that enveloped them, that no one could pronounce from what point the wind was blowing.

"What is that fluttering sound I hear?" asked Mr. Mayburn, in a voice of alarm.

A moment's silence followed, then every one distinctly heard the fluttering. At length Ruth said, "Oh! if you please, master, it was only me. I couldn't bide that they should be burned alive, bonnie things; it were not their fault! It's them bits of chickens as I were hunting up when all this bad work were done—God forgive me!—and I gathered them into a basket; and if ye please, Miss Marget, dinnot let them be eaten, they're so bonnie."

Margaret readily granted the noisy little prisoners their life, and applauded the humanity of Ruth, whose struggles to keep her restless charge in order created some mirth, and diverted them for a time from the contemplation of their own troubles.

But another sound was now heard above the monotonous rumbling of the unquiet ocean. It was surely, they thought, a human cry! It was again repeated; and Wilkins said very coolly, "It'll be some of our chaps. Like enough they'll have capsized yon big crazy boat. They'd a keg of brandy to fight about; and I'll be bound they'd never settle as long as there were a drop left in't."

"Can we not show them a light?" said Mr. Mayburn: "that was a cry of distress, and humanity calls on us to aid them."

"There's no room here for any more hands," muttered Wilkins. "Drunken rogues! they'd kick these few shaking clogs to bits in no time: and then where are we?"

"Nevertheless, Margaret, we must do our duty. Arthur, what do you say?" asked Mr. Mayburn anxiously.

A loud and dismal scream, at no great distance, decided the question without further discussion. Gerald produced a match-box; and though the wind had got up rather boisterously, they succeeded in lighting and displaying a long splinter of wood. Then a voice was heard to cry, "Help! help!" and Wilkins, with a suppressed curse, said, "It's that desp'rate rogue, Black Peter, and no mistake. Better let him drown, I tell ye, comrades; but I've heared 'em say, water won't haud him. They're all alike bad dogs to let loose among us; they've guns and powder, and they're up to ony sort of bloody work."

Mr. Mayburn groaned at this speech, and said, "What shall we do, Arthur?—we are wholly defenceless against those bad men."

"Don't you think of that, sir," said O'Brien; "Hugh and I looked after that. We brought off a pair of first-rate rifles, with lots of powder and shot. We are the boys to manage the defences. We left the nautical matters to our captain, Arthur; Jack sought up the spars and hammers, and such matters; and Margaret did the commissariat. Division of labor, you see, sir—all regular."

"I did not think your giddy brain could have arranged so well," said Mr. Mayburn: "I am ashamed to say I have not been so thoughtful."

"No, no, papa," said Hugh; "Gerald is taking more credit than is due to us. It was Margaret who arranged what each should do, and allowed us to add to our duties as we chose; in consequence of which, you see, Gerald and I thought of destroying life, and Ruth of preserving it."

While thus talking, the young rowers had been endeavoring laboriously to force the heavy raft, against the wind, towards the spot from whence the cries seemed to proceed. The darkness was so intense that it was in vain the eye sought to penetrate it; but the cry, still heard at intervals, seemed to approach nearer, probably directed by the light. Still it was not without an involuntary shudder, and a half-uttered shriek, that they felt and saw a hand grasp the raft, and heard a hoarse voice demand help. This was immediately given; Arthur and Jack, with much difficulty, drew upon the raft the almost lifeless form of a tall, powerful man, who lay gasping many minutes before he was able to reply to the anxious inquiries of his preservers if any of his companions yet survived.

"Every rogue among 'em gone to his reckoning," said he, with a diabolical laugh. "A good riddance! If we'd only saved the gold and the brandy! But hand me a sup of something, good folks."

"We have nothing but water," said Arthur gravely.

The man made a wry face, and said, "I've had more nor enough of that. Well, then, what are ye bound after in this queer craft? It'll not stand much weather, I take it. And," with an oath, "Wilkins, man, how came you to drop in among these saints?"

Wilkins gave the man a fiery glance, as he answered, "It were a bit safer to-night among saints nor amang sinners, it's like; and I guess ye were thinking so a bit sin' yersel'."

"Never heed that that's gone, man," said the careless villain: "I'm in as good a place as they are now."

"Ay, Peter," said Wilkins, "it's all true as how neither fire nor water will touch thee. We'se see what thou was born to."

"Keep a civil tongue in thy head," replied Peter, "for thou and me must chum together, and see what we can pick up."

"What was the cause of your accident, unhappy man?" said Mr. Mayburn, coming up to him.

"None so unhappy now," answered the surly fellow; "better off nor I have been for a few years past, if it were not for want of brandy. I'se free and idle, and can have plenty of grub, I reckon," looking at the casks; "so I'se do now. We might have kept together; but, ye see, we began ower soon with our brandy, and had only one drinking-cup among us, and everybody wanted it first; and so we chaps got to words, and then to hard hits, and then out came our knives. We were badly crowded; and, somehow, in our scrimmage, we all fell atop of one another, and capsized our boat, and away we all went down. Then, when we came up, such cursing and yelling never was heard on earth or sea, and, dark as it was, none could catch hold on aught to save him. It was soon settled, however; for all our chaps were over far gone in drink to help themselves, and they went down, shouting out, one after another. I had the luck to catch hold of the brandy-keg, and I took care to keep hold; but I could not stop it from leaking, and it vexed me sore that so much good liquor should be made into salt-water grog, and no time to get a sup. I shouted as loud as I could, and let myself float, till I got sight of your signal, and then I thought there was a bit of a chance; so I managed to swim a few strokes, keeping one hand on my barrel; but I made little way, if the sea and the wind hadn't brought me right up to you. When my barrel bumped again the raft, I lost hold, and I hardly know how it was I clutched the spars; but here I be snug and safe in harbor."

"Thank God for your preservation, reckless man," said Mr. Mayburn. "He, who is all mercy to His sinful creatures, has granted you a respite, that you may learn to know and serve Him. Cast not away the precious boon, but in this awful hour, turn to Him, repent, and pray."

The good man kneeled down beside the reprobate, and offered up an earnest prayer for the wretched sinner, who was sound asleep before Mr. Mayburn had concluded; and it was with a sigh he turned from the man, sorrowful, but not hopeless.

CHAPTER V.

Afloat on an Unknown Sea.—The insubordinate Sailor.—The Coral Reefs.—An Island in view.—The Perilous Landing.—Peter's Rebellion.—The First Night on Shore.—Ruth among the Crockery.—A valuable Prize.—The March from the First Encampment.

As the morning light dawned on the distressed voyagers, they became aware of their perilous situation. Around them lay the wide restless ocean, now agitated by a south-west wind, which drove them onward, washed and drenched by the waves, which threatened destruction to their frail vessel, in the midst of which the little knot of united friends were now gathered, their unwelcome guest still lying asleep apart from them. As soon as the light permitted him, Jack began steadily and carefully to repair and strengthen the raft. The spare spars he now lashed round to form a sort of gunwale, to protect them from the spray; and after taking out a supply of biscuit for use, he nailed over the whole of the packages the large sail they had brought away, to steady and preserve them from any injury from the waves.

The man they had rescued from death now awoke, and joined the rest: he was a tall, powerful, savage-looking man, still wearing the convict uniform, so offensive to the taste of the civilized; and his manners were rude and insolent.

"Have you no better prog than this poor stuff?" said he, as his portion of biscuit and cup of water were offered to him. "The Queen allows us better rations nor this, after your grand laws have made us out to be rogues."

"You fare as we do," answered Arthur, mildly. "As long as we have biscuit, you are welcome to share it. We make no distinctions in our common distress."

"You were a pack of fools," said the man, "not to bring away something worth freightage, when you had space enough. Had you sense to fetch a compass?"

"We had no opportunity to secure chart or compass," replied Arthur. "Besides, we were too thankful for the means God gave us to save our lives, to have many thoughts or cares about where we should go. We are in His hands, and I trust, by his mercy, may reach some safe harbor."

"It's as well to tell you beforehand," said the sailor, "that you'd better not get it into your heads that you are going to give me up to hard labor and irons again. Wherever I set my foot on land I mean to be my own master, and the first among you that peaches on me shall rue it." Here the man drew from his breast a brace of pistols, and added,—"You see I managed to keep my barkers safe. What would you say, man, to a ball right through your ugly head?"—and he presented the muzzle of the pistol to Wilkins, who shrank behind Arthur.

"You must mean that threat for a jest, Peter," said Arthur, in a tone of displeasure. "If you are in earnest, I can only remind you that we also have arms. I am commander here, and the first man on the raft that shows any signs of insubordination, I shall certainly shoot dead."

Peter stared scornfully and vindictively at Arthur, but seeing his unmoved countenance, he turned off with a sort of laugh, and withdrew to the stern of the raft.

"What a capital fellow Arty is, Hugh!" whispered Gerald. "See how he has cowed that huge bully. Are we not proud of our captain?"

Towards noon the heat of the sun became excessive, and was most distressing to the voyagers exposed to its beams; Margaret and her father especially suffered from it, till Jack contrived an ingenious canopy for them by raising some spars, over which he spread the boat-cloaks, which the boys had fortunately worn to protect them from the flames in the burning ship. As evening came on, the wind increased alarmingly, and they looked round anxiously to obtain some idea of their position, till at last Wilkins pointed out some hazy dots on the wide ocean desert, which he pronounced to be small islands.

"O Arthur," said Margaret, "if it be possible, let us land on an island; I long to feel my feet on firm ground. Have you any idea what islands these are?"

"I ken'em," said Wilkins, "and can tell ye they're all alike quite dissolute."

"Then I pray, Arthur," said Mr. Mayburn, "that we may avoid them. We had better continue to float on the solitude of the ocean, than seek the haunts of the wicked."

The boys laughed; they understood better than their father the peculiarities of Wilkins's language, and Arthur said,—"I have read, papa, that these north-western islands of Australia are generally small, barren, and uninhabited. If we could safely land on one of them, it would be desirable, that we might rest and improve our raft before we sought the mainland; but I fear they will be difficult of approach, from the coral reefs that surround them."

"Which I long to behold, Arthur," said Mr. Mayburn; "and I beseech you to endeavor to reach one of these reefs. I have ever desired to look upon the work of those toiling, wonderful insects; minute agents of the Omniscient for mighty purposes, laboring incessantly to carry out the plans of creative wisdom.

'As the kings of the cloud-crowned pyramid
Their noteless bones in oblivion hid,
They slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main,
While the wonder and pride of their works remain.'"

Wilkins stared at the enthusiastic naturalist, and, turning to Arthur, said, "Does he want us to land among them reefs, think ye? A bonnie clash we should have with this log float. If we'd had a few of them bark boats as them black fellows has up country, we might have made a shift; but, ye see," indicating the fair sex by a finger pointed towards them, "they'd make no hand of swimming among breakers."

"Indeed, they would not," answered Arthur; "we must contrive some safer method for them, Wilkins. But if we could, by using our oars, draw near to these isles, I should like to inspect them."

"Ye cannot suspect 'em, sir," answered Wilkins, "without ye were right atop on 'em. Why, they're all dry and bare, and clear of aught but a few birds but I'se willing to use an oar, if ye'd like to see 'em."

It was hard work rowing that heavy raft, and the ungrateful Peter refused to assist, but sat apart, smoking cigars, of which, it appeared, he had contrived to bring a box about his person; still before night they had approached within a mile of a rocky island. Then the sudden darkness of a tropical region surprised them, and compelled them to wait for day, uneasy at the dangerous proximity of the coast, towards which, Wilkins pointed out, a current seemed to be urging them.

"We must have all hands at work, captain," said he, "to keep off them ugly rocks. Come, Peter, man, take up an oar."

"Not I," said the savage, "I'se take a snooze; and when we're drifted a bit nigher hand, rouse me up, and I'll make a swim to shore. I've no mind for another capsize."

It was a service of toil and danger, and the active young men plied the oars vigorously for hours, trusting they were standing safely off the dangerous reefs, till at last, worn out with fatigue, one after another they dropped asleep.