if they don't slacken a bit, I fancy they'll have to drop you by the way. Here, just lean on me, I'm 'nation strong, and it wont no way put me out."

But the poor old woman appeared to know no weariness; thanking Paul, therefore, for his kind intention, she assured him she was quite able to walk, and proved her words by keeping up with the men.

The part of the country upon which they now entered was bleak and rugged, full of ravines and gullies, by which the land discharged its superfluous waters into the sea. There were but few trees, and such as existed were stunted, flattened at top, and had their boughs all flung inwards from the prevalence of the winds from the ocean. Here and there, however, in some sheltered nooks, they found quiet little hamlets, whose inhabitants were buried in slumber, and altogether unconscious of the strange procession which moved noiselessly by their thresholds. At this time the moon began to rise, and with the first appearance of its disc revealed the fact that they were approaching the sea. The very breeze assumed a different character, becoming fresher and more buoyant, and imparting an elasticity to the frame of those around whom it blew. Paul now, for the first time in his life, caught a glimpse of the ocean, with all its multitudinous waves glittering and leaping beneath the moon. All men of imagination love the sea, which, when it bursts for the first time upon our gaze, appears more than the overhanging firmament to excite in us the idea of infinity. Paul stood still to allow, as it were, the vast idea to enter quietly into his soul. He forgot everything else. He heard a wild murmur in the distance, a sound as of many voices engaged in fantastic revelry. It was the choral music of the ocean, the concert of winds and waves, and the perpetual divine service performed by the elements in honour of God. A new nature seemed to be awakened within his breast. His mind seemed to be elevated, enlarged, purified. He felt that there was something greater than the petty din of earth, and remembering the earliest records of our material universe, he fancied that the spirit of God still moved upon the face of the waters.

Occupied with thoughts like these, he became almost unconscious of the presence of those around him, the tramp of whose feet, multitudinous and irregular, formed a striking contrast with that of an army, which, regulated and measured, suggests the idea of one vast machine, moving on myriads of feet. By degrees, as they descended into the lowlands, Paul again lost sight of the sea. Sometimes they entered narrow lanes, and were consequently stretched out into a long file, with the vanguard far removed from the rear; sometimes they deployed upon the open fields, and resembled a swarm of bees moving forward in disorder.

At length they stood upon the sea-shore, where a broad expanse of sand left ribbed and dripping by the retreating waves, sloped downward from the cliffs to the ocean's bed. At a little distance towards the right, moored beside a jutting rock, lay a large boat, such as is employed in Sunderland and elsewhere in loading vessels with coal. Towards this the colliers directed their march. Arriving at the spot, they deposited their sad burden upon the rock, and began to consider among themselves in what way they should perform the last rites to their unhappy comrade. It was at length agreed that a stone should be fastened to the body, which, together with the weight of chains already attached to it, would effectually prevent its rising to the surface. At this stage of the proceedings the poor old woman, who had accompanied them to the spot in complete silence, now threw herself on her knees upon the sand, and begged they would take her into the boat that she might see the last of her wretched son. The colliers kindly raised her up, and said she should do as she pleased. They then began to inquire whether any one present knew anything of the funeral service, or could repeat a prayer of any kind. The question was put again and again, but no answer was returned. Not a soul there had learned to pray, and few, apparently, understood exactly what a prayer meant. At length Daniel Filmer stepped forward, and, laying hold of Paul, said— "I think this boy can read and pray; let us put him into the boat. He shall be our parson, and I'll undertake to say amen.'

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To this arrangement Paul readily consented, though he said "he was 'nation little used to pray-at all events, not before strangers."

The corpse was then placed in the boat, ten or a dozen men took to the oars, Paul was placed beside the old woman at the stern, and out they pulled, while the multitude remained upon the beach gazing after them in silence. When they had proceeded seaward a full mile, they prepared to commit the body to the deep. Every collier took off his hat and knelt down upon the deck, except the two who stood at the gunwale ready to cast in the corpse as soon as Paul should have finished his prayers. They likewise were uncovered, a touching illustration of the influence of religion even upon the rudest and most ignorant minds. Without saying a word or being prompted by any one, they felt how weak and helpless man is, and experienced the truth of the saying "that in the midst of life we are in death." The influence of God's presence was among them, as amid the roar of the ocean, and with tears streaming down his cheeks, Paul pronounced the only prayer he knew-that which Christ taught his disciples. "Our Father which art in Heaven," he began, as all the boat's crew sobbed around him. Twice or thrice he interrupted himself and had to begin again, and each time as he pronounced the words "Our Father" the sobs of his companions interrupted him again. At length he got through the prayer and said, "Now is the time, commit his body to the deep; ashes to ashes, dust to dust; and may God have mercy upon him and upon us." Then plunge went the corpse into the ocean.

Where Paul learnt these words it were hard to say; but he had often been to funerals, and had read some books, especially voyages, which delighted him greatly by their accounts of distant lands and seas, and in them perhaps it was that he had picked up the phrase which he used on the present occasion. I have already said the moon was up, and that it was altogether a lovely night. The breath of ocean was fresh and balmy; all heaven seemed alive with stars; the waves as they leaped up burst into light as their foaming crests were silvered by the moon, and the solemn errand on which Paul and his friends the colliers had come thither co-operated with external nature in producing a powerful influence on their minds. Rough, uncouth, ignorant men are easily moved in new situations; far more easily than your stiff-starched conventionally-genteel people who are sometimes so long without using their feelings that they almost cease to have any. Death, moreover, is a great softener of the heart, and no one knows half the beauty of his own nature who has not been brought by circumstances into close contact with that shadowy power. When we lose those we love how we yearn and strain after them, with the hope, as it were, of being able to look over the brink of existence and catch a glimpse of their spirits as they fade away into the boundless expanses of eternity. Then it is that death, how terrible soever, seems beautiful. The beauty of those who die seems to be imparted to him; and therefore perhaps it was that the ancients represented Death as a lovely seraph, sad indeed of countenance, and everlastingly silent, but beautiful as the heavens themselves, which, like him, are without voice or language.

When the murderer's body had been cast into the waves, never to emerge again till the deep shall cast up its dead to appear before the judgment seat of God, the bereaved mother, who had been silent hitherto, burst forth into a sort of wild thanksgiving.

"Blessed be God!" she exclaimed ; "he is now beyond their reach! and bless you every one of you for helping a poor old woman who has nothing but her blessing to give you."

She said no more, but sankupon the deck overwhelmed by the weight of her own sorrow. Paul sat down by her and wept bitterly.

"I wish, ma'am,” said he, “I had any place to take you to, I would work for you, and be a son to you; but I am as poor as you are, and have neither house nor home, that I know of, though if I could but find my mother I should not want for nothing, I think."

These words were overheard by some of the colliers, who had now put about the bark, and were beginning to row towards the shore.

"It's well said, mother," cried one of them, resting on his oar. "That there boy has a heart in his body, and tells us what we ought to do; I am well enough off, and have neither wife nor mother, so you shall go along with me." The old woman expressed, as well as she could, her gratitude, and Paul, addressing himself to the collier, said, “That's 'nation good of you."

There was then silence for some time, and Paul, making his way to the bows, stood gazing at the ripple which flew off like wings on either side of the boat. He then looked up, and saw the expectant crowd upon the shore, who, as the funeral party neared the land, greeted them with a shout of triumph. Presently the keel touched the sand, and the rowers jumped out, and with much kindness assisted the old woman to land. They then immediately turned their faces toward the cliffs and hurried off, entirely overlooking Paul, who remained leaning against the boat and looking out upon the ocean. He was not altogether unconscious of their departure, but though they had upon the whole used him well, rejoiced at escaping from them. When he found himself entirely alone, he took the painter and made it fast to the rock, and then, by way of enjoying himself, he thrust his hands into his breeches' pockets and walked along the sand, watching the playful motion of the waves as they coquetted with the shore, now rushing in as if they meant to embrace it for ever, and then instantly stealing out again into the arms of their parent ocean. Paul thought he could look upon the scene for ever. He was not in the slightest degree poetical, and could indeed scarcely distinguish verse from prose, but he felt, as he expressed it, "'nation queer at the prodigious novelty around him. He never before had the slightest notion that there existed anything in this globe so marvellous as the sea, which he took to be a living thing engaged for ever in fretting and refreshing the earth. He saw beneath his feet innumerable shells, and his heart lingered with a strange delight as he picked up one curious specimen after another, inwardly persuaded that no one had discovered such treasures before. The long sweep of sand gleaming in the moonlight, the dark overhanging cliffs, the broad expanse of waters, the infinite sky above flooded with light-everything appeared so glorious to Paul that he felt almost beside himself with pleasure. However, he grew weary at last, as men generally do of everything in this world, upon which he made up towards the cliffs, where in a small hollow in the rocks he threw himself down, and was soon fast asleep.

CHAPTER XXXI.-Danger AND DISAPPOINTMENT.

PAUL, on the present occasion, was what in Dogberry's language is denominated an ass; for on lying down to sleep, he never once reflected whether or not he was likely to be visited by unpleasant company before the morning. It was not yet quite light, however, before he was roused from his rocky pillow by a most dangerous customer. The cold touch of his visitor, however, felt like the finger of death, and seemed likely to prove so when it had unbound the bandages of sleep from his eyes. In plain English, the tide was coming in, and he was up to his knees in water before he became conscious of his danger. The rising and sinking of the sea in obedience to the influence of a planet rolling through space at an immense distance from the earth, by no means entered into the circle of Paul's knowledge, though he had no doubt sometimes read in books something about the tides; but the ideas we obtain from printed words are often not sufficiently vivid or real to influence our actions, otherwise our ragamuffin of a hero would, before he lay down, have taken care to see that his dormitory was above high-water mark. There, however, he slept in a cave, from which there was no egress, with the tide coming in and rising every minute. Upon starting to his feet he exclaimed to himself, "This is 'nation odd; can't I get out no how ?" He then waded forward a little, and found that another step more would probably carry him beyond his depth, so he retreated back into

the cave, and began to glance at the roof and sides to see whether they offered the slightest chance of his climbing out by their assistance; but, except that above his head there was a small projecting ledge on which an imp of his inches might manage to sit, they were as smooth as a brick wall. By dint of much exertion he climbed up to the ledge aforesaid, and planting himself there, resolved on paying obedience to the laws of necessity that is, on doing what he could not possibly avoid.

Most persons have witnessed the coming in of the tide on a summer's morning, when not a breath disturbs the surface of the sea, and the water rises on the shore like a flood of gentle emotions about the heart, covering one object after another till all are steeped in the delicious element. Every time this phenomenon takes place there seems to be a new creation. The tide you see to-day no man ever saw before, the particles of the sea being in perpetual motion and change, and appearing thus to acquire everlasting vitality. Up from the calm surface an influence seems to spring which soothes and tranquillises the mind. You long to quit the land and to repose on the substance of that yielding fluid, which is softer than the lap of love; and then the transparency, the green freshness as of spring buds-the flocks of delicate foam which float here and there in fantastic patterns among the ripples-the cool fragrance which pervades the air, as if the breath of the chaste Thetis embalmed all nature. Oh! there is happiness in gazing at the rising tide, especially when the sun's golden disc sheds its first rosy tints on the eyelids of the morning. And it is of pleasures like this that our life in cities deprives us. When we escape from our artificial restraints, and plunge into forests, or stroll along the margin of the ocean, an irresistible desire comes over us to mingle with nature, and merge our individuality in the universal existence.

Paul, rude and untutored as he was, experienced these yearnings, and being ignorant of the approaching danger, looked with a sort of rapturous joy at the heaving and palpitating sea, which appeared to be thrilling through all its depths with the consciousness of life and happiness. But beauty is often destructive. The magnificent element on which he gazed with such admiration felt no compassion for him, and in the exercise of its own powers was as ready to stifle him in its embrace as to round a pebble or agitate a sea-weed. As he dwelt with a sort of mute ecstacy on their glorious features, the waters rose and rose till he found himself once more wet by them. This time there was no further retreat, and his admiration was replaced by fear, as the calm and beautiful death crept upwards over his frame. Already he found himself waist deep in the water, and his alarm became terror, and terror deepened into agony, as the tide continued mounting about his fluttering heart. His eyes now turned up instinctively towards heaven, whose blue depths answered his imploring looks with that ineffable, unchanging smile with which they regard equally all human joy and calamity, our loves and our hatreds, our birth and our death. The cold and half-congealed tears now stood on Paul's cheeks, or dropped into the brine as he thought on his mother, the Wilkinsons, and the wild beasts, and would now have given all his earthly hope to be transported into the tigress's cage, and lay his head on her speckled side. In the hope that somebody might be walking on the cliff above, or that a boat might be moored within hearing, he shouted till he was hoarse, but to no purpose. No answering voice greeted his ear, and nothing could he descry but the rock, the sea, and the overhanging firmament. His face became convulsed by the fear of death, -and all, as he said to himself, was his own fault.

However, he was not destined to be extinguished in that cave; so, after keeping him hanging between this world and the next, like Mohammed's coffin, between heaven and earth, the tide began to sink gently as it had risen, and ebbed away imperceptibly, till several inches of his wet figure previously immersed became visible to his own eyes. His tears began presently to dry, and he thought it was 'nation lucky that there was a ledge in the cave, and that he had had the wit to climb upon it. At the bottom also of his heart there was a

sort of dumb thankfulness to Providence, whose power Paul secretly recognised, though he knew nothing of the laws by which it operates, whether on the physical or moral world. But the ocean knows its own limits, and observes them; and having flooded the shore to the appointed mark, retreated as he had come, and proceeded laughingly to carry joy or death to other parts of the world. At length the cave became dry, and Paul leaped down and followed the vagrant waves outwards upon the sand, where he ran to and fro to warm and dry himself; and then looking out for a practicable track, mounted the cliffs, in the hope of meeting with some one who could direct him towards Ulraven.

After walking inland for upwards of an hour, he came upon a high road, when he met with a pedlar, who, as good luck would have it, was proceeding towards his native place, and promised to show him the way. This worthy individual was a Scotchman, staid and taciturn, the very reverse of Mr. Brian Macguire, with whom he had travelled before he had fell into his last trials. Sandy was acute and canny, and as close fisted as prudence could desire. Nevertheless, when they sat down together on the banks of a little rivulet, and our plaided mountaineer took out his bag of oatmeal and tin cup to make himself breakfast, he frankly offered Paul a share of his grub. Paul's hunger made him think the smell of the oatmeal delicious, and to the honour of the Gael be it spoken, he put a little in the tin cup, then filled it with water, and stirring it with a green sprig broken from the hedge, presented the first mess to Paul, who, of course, accepted it nothing loth. Our friend then prepared for himself a similar allowance; and, when they had completed their frugal meal, started again, and in the afternoon of the same day arrived at Ulraven. Paul then shook his companion by the hand, and, thanking him for his kindness, started off towards his mother's cottage, never once looking about him till he arrived at the door. It stood wide open, and in he bolted; but what was his surprise when, instead of the beautiful and beloved face of Kate Pevensey, he beheld that of an elderly woman, whom he had never seen before.

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‘Ma'am,” said Paul, fetching his breath with difficulty, "where's my mother ?' The woman stared at him from head to foot, and then, in a kindly tone of voice, replied in another very natural question :

"Who is your mother, my little man?"

"Kate Pevensey, ma'am," answered Paul.

"Kate Pevensey," repeated the woman, "why she has left now a long while." "And where is she gone?" answered Paul, who never doubted he should still find her somewhere in the village.

"I don't know, indeed," observed the woman, whose pity was excited by the marks of extreme distress she saw in Paul's face, "I don't know, my little man; but she went away with a gentleman-not till they were married, though. And people said she would have been very happy but that she could not, no way, find out her lost boy."

At this intelligence Paul turned his face towards the door, and his cheeks became moistened with the bitterest tears he had ever shed. He felt that he stood alone and friendless in the world. His mother was lost-the Wilkinsons were lost-and the feeling of utter desolation which seized upon his heart no words could express. Mrs. Hopkins saw, at least partly, what was passing in his mind, and with a sort of rough good nature, for which the poor of this country are above all things, perhaps, remarkable, said—

"Come, sit down, my boy, and rest yourself, and take something to eat. You look hungry and weary."

"God bless you, ma'am," exclaimed Paul, hardly able to get the words out any how; "I don't feel neither hunger nor weariness, and would walk without wet or dry till this time to-morrow, if I could but hope to see my mother at the end of it."

He tried to keep in his sobs and his tears, because he did not, as he expressed it, like to make a fool of himself before a stranger, but he could not help it. Nature was too many for him; so, sitting down as he was bid, upon a stool, and