fire-ball shoots up in reply to our signals, and the white foam seething on the angry billows throws out gleams of phosphorescent light.

We are quite contented to climb down below again to the warm space between decks, scarcely less wet under foot than what we have just left, for the seas dash with such force against the ship that the water spurts in through the crevices in the gun-ports, although they are closed as tightly as screws can fasten them. However, Jack has swung his hammock as usual, and "turns in" regardless of the storm, confident in the vigilance and experience of his shipmates on watch. And so we too climb into the high berth in our state-room, and creep in under our warm blankets, not to sleep much, however the ever-increasing rolling and pitching puts a veto on that and we lie there swaying from side to side in our bunk and listening to the creaking and groaning of the woodwork, the noise of the storm, and the voices of some of the officers, who, as they may be called upon perhaps at any moment for some duty or other, have congregated in the smoking corner near the door of

our room.

What a mess we are in the next morning! We had supposed we had secured everything for the night, but, somehow or other, things had gone adrift; a big sea had struck our air-port, letting in a volume of water, and as we look down from our berth to the floor of the room in the gray light of the morning, clothes, shoes, toilet articles are heaped there together, soaking in a little pool, that moves gurgling about the room with every motion of the ship. However, others are as badly off as we are; there is a defective scupper or two in places; one of the midshipmen hasn't a dry piece of clothing to his name, and one of the ward-room officers was deluged by the carrying away from its fastenings of a twenty-gallon water-breaker-as the barrels containing fresh water are called -which bounded into his room through the open doorway, and spilled its contents over everything before he could say Jack Robinson.

A tremendous sea is running when we go on deck, but our staunch cruiser rides the waves beautifully, coming back

from a long roll to leeward slowly and gracefully; everything is taut and shipshape, and the entire crew none the worse for a little discomfort, that Jack looks upon as part of the regular course of events in his sea-life.

Gradually the gale moderates and the sea goes down; blue skies and favorable winds again, warm breezes from the Azores. Now and then we sight a sail, and once a little Portuguese schooner glides right into the midst of the squadron, dipping her colors again and again in polite and respectful salutation to the great white war-ships speeding past her.

We expect to make the land within another twenty-four hours or so, and Jack is hard at work scrubbing, polishing, and painting to make his ship "pretty," as he would say. Water and sand, scrubbing brushes, and "squilgees" are making the planks of the decks as clean as new pins. The sailors are everywhere, most of them barefooted, with trousers rolled up to their knees; some of them are in their undershirts, bare arms covered with all sorts of devices tattooed on the white skin in red and blue, and all of them are "buckling down" to their work, rubbing and scrubbing, splashing the water, and "hustling about," active as cats. There is a wonderful feeling of life in the movements of a well-trained man-of-war's man; he springs to his duties at the boatswain's mate's call, loose, easy, and agile, unconsciously graceful in his attitudes and picturesque in the manner of wearing his clothes, the tilt of his cap, or the tie of his neckerchief.

The sea lies blue and sparkling in the sunlight, scarcely a ripple disturbs the smooth surface. We make signal to slow down to half-speed and to determine compass deviations by swinging ship. Each vessel steams in a circle by itself and the bearing of the sun is taken as she heads for some minutes on each point; the comparison of the actual bearing of the sun - which is established by computation-with its bearing by compass, gives the deviation for each particular point. A table of such deviations is made out, and the navigators have only to refer to this to know how much to allow in order to steer the correct course.

The greater part of the day is thus taken up, and with the gathering shades of evening our bows are pointed eastward again and we are slipping through the water on a course laid straight for

Lusian shores.

One bell in the morning watch again! Gently heaving in long, undulating swells, dark to the horizon save where the lights of the ships cast silvery gleams down into its placid surface, the great ocean stretches astern and on either side of us, lapping caressingly the white sides of our beautiful frigate lying at rest on the smooth and peaceful sea. High above in the blue vault of heaven the stars shine down upon us with a soft radiance, and a warm breeze fans our cheeks and brings with it a fragrance as of a summer night. Up on the forward bridge a group of the officers stands; one of them-night glass in hand-points to a distant bright light, a point or two off our starboard bow. "Cape Roca light," he says, "and yonder lies the mouth of the Tagus." Bang! bang! signal balls flash from the after-bridge, and a rocket describes a graceful fiery curve up toward the sky, and bursting, scatters a myriad of brilliant sparks through the darkness. Slowly our screws revolve again, slowly and simultaneously the ships turn to the northward, and we steam for a while at half-speed up the coast, which we know is lying to the eastward, and then lie-to again waiting for daylight to come.

Gradually the night slips away; a soft warm light creeps over the surface of the sea; far on the horizon to eastward the sky is brightening. A black, low-hulled propeller glides noiselessly like a dark shadow between us and the cloud-like mass rising out of the sea over yonder, and as we look, lo! there-outlined in softest and purest purple against the sky, now glowing with a golden fire heralding the approach of the god of light-"Cintra's mountain" greets our hungry eyes.

Up comes the sun like a ball of red fire, flushing everything with a rosy light, and, trending off north and south and melting into the clear atmosphere, the "delicious land" of Portugal stretches its fair shores before us, and we get

under way again, heading for the Tagus.

Slowly steaming, we move ahead; past seaward-standing fleets of fishing boats huge lateen sails, high prows, some of them with the semblance of an eye rudely painted on either bow, as in the bygone days of their Phoenician or Carthaginian prototypes-past a pilot boat, signal flying, but which we ignore, our officers being directed "by order" to act as pilots for themselves; past a large Italian bark, every sunlit white sail set, flying before a favorable wind. Slowly we steam along, past the high crags of Cintra, with its old castle crowning the top, the rolling hills beyond patched with the stone-walled fields, and dotted with groups of houses and rows of whitetowered windmills; on over the barthe heavy swell lifting the ships-opening up the entrance to the great river, out of which a sharp-bowed, black-hulled steamer-flying the flag of the British naval reserve, and dipping it in salutecomes smoothly gliding. On past the old fort of St. Julian on our left, its gray ramparts rising from behind a cloud of spray from the great breakers roaring on the shoals before it; past the stone circular work on our right-Fort Bugio with its high light-tower-and in through the narrowing opening on to the smoothflowing but rapid yellow tide of the Tagus. Slowly steaming we move up the river, past old Belem tower, whence nearly four centuries ago Vasco da Gama embarked, and behind which now tall chimneys from the gas-works of Belem town vomit out dense clouds of black smoke; past high bluffs on the opposite shore, fortress crowned, and where in a deep ravine a white-walled village around a church tower is nestled. The healthofficer has come alongside in his dingy steam-launch; pratique-or permission to land-has been granted us, and as our engines are stopped and we gradually lose headway, our anchors are let go and the huge chains rush roaring through the hawse-holes, and we swing broadside to in front of sunlit Lisbon, resting in tier upon tier of gray-walled, red-roofed houses on her many hills. Then, as the round ball of bunting run rapidly up to our main-truck, bursts out in folds of blue and white, and the stand

"I've been a-tellin' him ever sence I knowed him," he began in a slow, conclusive voice, "as he were a-helpin' orl the p'isenest mean trash in the country, an' I says, says I, 'Doctor, the least leetle wind'll blow trash in folks' faces,' says I," then with a long-drawn breath "Cuss their measly hides!" and he took up his pipe again.

"Of course it is all right for the doctor," Jerry said, as if convincing himself, "all right for him to do as he has done."

"To speckylate in lan'?" and Joe paused once more in his smoking; "I'llowed as youuns jist 'spised sich doin's; the papers says youuns do, an' Dan Burk 'llows thet youuns do, an' as youuns is got the rights on it."

Jerry pushed his hair from his forehead nervously. "I mean that the doctor will do it in the right way," he answered, anxiously, "the doctor will not speculate; he has bought the land for some good purpose."

"To gie it away?" Joe suggested sarcastically, "pay fur the lan'-pay to lay it out, an' gie it away?" He shook his head. "The doctor's mighty easy fooled, but he's got mo' sense ner thet." "He may put the lots at a very low rent," then Jerry left the fire and went out into the darkness. He did not want

to talk about this matter yet, for in his own mind he had come to no conclusion. Up and down he walked on the level bit of path that the doctor had trodden so slowly, when years before he spent the day at Joe's house to watch that the life came back to Jerry's poor little body.

Up and down in the darkness, trying not to judge his hero, his friend, his exemplar and help to all that was good and true; putting away forcibly all thought of self, and of the position the doctor had allowed him to take; pausing in his walk where the doctor had paused to say-"If God will ever forgive me!" that short, pathetic prayer that told so much and yet so little-just there Jerry paused and said "He cannot do wrong!" then he went in again to where Joe still smoked by the fire.

"It must be all right, Joe," he said, sitting down slowly.

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"I ain't never blamed him yit," Joe answered; then more patronizingly than he had spoken to Jerry in years, he went -"I ain't got much larnin', Jerry, but I'se knowed a heaper folks sence I kin 'member, an' one thing I jest will say, thet no man ain't a-goin' to gie away liker fool fur moren twenty yeer, an' orl of a suddint turn roun' an' cheat folks fur money as he don't need; I don't b'lieve it no more'n I'd b'lieve a p'inter dorg as tole me he couldn't smeller mink. It's no use a-talkin' to me thet away," and he knocked the ashes out of his pipe with unusual vehemence, packing it again as if protesting against the need of any justification of the doctor. "An' youuns, Jerry," he went on more quietly, "as knows the doctor bettern mos' folks; youuns kin stan' by him better." Then more slowly-"If I didn't hev sicher sighter work on han' darned if I wouldn't lay out the lan' fur him myseff!"

Jerry did not answer, for Joe's mention of his work made him think for the moment of the mystery in which he lived between these two unknown lives.

"Pore doctor," Joe said at last, bringing Jerry back from his musings, "ain't thar no way of youuns a-heppin' him, Jerry?"

Jerry shook his head.

"I will go and see," he answered, "but if he had wanted my help he would have told me long ago, and have stopped my writing." The words were said unintentionally, and Jerry was angry with himself for having exposed this sore place, especially to Joe, whom he felt, somehow, would be glad to widen a little the distance between himself and the doctor. Joe blew out a cloud of smoke.

"Youuns dunno the doctor yit," he said with a little grunt that might have been a stifled chuckle, "he never blazes no road behind him, he don't, an' he ain't a-goin' to persuade youuns not to bust yer brains out agin a tree, if so be youuns hes a mind to do it; an' he never splains nothin', ner axes nothin'.

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Jerry listened and had no answer; rather, his heart grew cold within him as Joe went on, because of the confirming truth in the old man's words:

"An' he'll gie youuns cloze, an' wittles, an' firewood; he'll gie youuns as much as a house, but youuns mus' sot thet house right fur over yander, right fur, 'cause he don't want no pusson's shed j'ined onter hisn's, you bet; he gies away liker fool; but, Lord! he don't want nothin' a-trailin' atter him; but orl the same, I 'llowed as youuns mout he'p him." They were hard things that Joe had told, but they were true; he knew they were hard too, but it was not in his humanity to refrain from this little exposition of the man who had for years supplanted him in the life of "his boy"-he had taken the second place very quietly, but he felt a little triumphant just now.

And the next afternoon when Jerry made time for his visit to the doctor by giving a half-holiday, he remembered all these hard sayings of Joe's, and would allow to himself only that he was going to explain his own action, and to warn the doctor of the feeling that was out among the people. Several leading men had been to see Jerry during the morning, and from them he had gained his view of the state of the community.

All were angry and indignant, and

very impatient to make known to their late friend this new feeling which had developed toward him. That morning an angry notice had appeared "declining to work for the doctor at any price -no one would lift a finger for the man who had deliberately cheated the town out of all it had hoped to make by the railway,"-and the notice was signed "The citizens of Eureka and Durden's."

Jerry had read it angrily, for he knew that the baffled speculators were at the bottom of it. These slow-thinking, shiftless natives—as in his heart he called his own class-would never have had the energy nor the sense to make a combined move; they might be keen at a bargain, but they had to be taught to think, taught that sin was hidden in land speculations. And he became more angry with them-naturally, but unreasonably so-when ne remembered that he had taught them the chief lesson on this point.

His object and his work had been true and right; but, like most honest men who long to be benefactors, he had done too much; or perhaps his pupils had pushed his theory too far.

He had denounced the Government for selling its land, and the people saw the reason in this; he had denounced the people who had bought this land as a speculation to the detriment of their fellow-creatures, and the people followed him here also; but he had not thought of providing for the contingency of an honest man buying this land for honest purposes.

"And who would have dreamed of such a thing!" he said to himself, with unconscious sarcasm and in much bitterness of spirit, when he found out who the mysterious buyer was, and that the people had applied all his teachings to him. "Who would have believed such a thing!" and the people showed their faith in his judgment by refusing to believe it.

Hurriedly and angrily he tramped along the road; he wanted to have a long talk with the doctor, and the time spent in reaching his destination provoked him. After much argument with himself he had determined to explain to the doctor the position he had taken, and why he had taken it. It had been