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 face, and sometimes it made them sad. At the memory of this the dried-up well of Danny's own eyes moistened at last to tears.

The cold, thick winter day was far worn towards sunset. Not a breath of wind was stirring. Gilded by the sun's rays, the waters to the west made a floor of bleared red. The fishing-boat had drifted nearly ten miles to the south. If she should drift two miles more she must float into the south–easterly current that flows under Contrary Head. The crew lay half-frozen on the deck. No one cared to go below. All was still around them, and silence was in their midst. At last a man lifted his head, and asked if any one could say what had become of Christian. No one knew. Old Quilleash thought he must have come by some mischief, and perhaps be captured or even dead. It was only the general hopelessness of their hearts that gave a ready consent to this view of the possibilities. Then they talked of Christian as if he were no longer a living man.

"He didn't want to be in it, didn't the young masther," said one.

"Did you see how he was for criss-crossin' and putting up obstacles at every turn?" said another.

"That was nothin' to the way he was glad when we saw the lad's fire over the Lockjaw, and had to make a slant for it and leave the thing not done."

"Aw, well, well," said Quilleash, "it was poor Bill that's gone, God help him, that led the young masther into the shoal water. What's it sayin'?—'Black as is the raven, he'll get a partner;' but Bill, poor chap, he must be for makin' a raven out of a dove."