ne, and can't be undone. Go now, Jack, I wish to get a little sleep."

"Shall I come and see you to-morrow, Spicer?"

"Yes, come when you will; I like to have some one to talk to; it keeps
me from thinking."

I wished him good day, and went away with the book in my hand. Before I
went home. I sought out old Anderson, and told him what had passed.
"He will not see the chaplain, Anderson, but perhaps he will see you;
and, by degrees, you can bring him to the subject. It is dreadful that
a man should die in that way."

"Alas for the pride of us wretched worms!" ejaculated Anderson; "he
talks of dying game,--that is to say, he defies his Maker. Yes, Jack, I
will go and see him; and happy I am that he has a few days to live. I
will see him to-night, but will not say much to him, or he might refuse
my coming again."

I went home. I was not in a very gay humour, for the sight of Spicer's
leg, and the announcement of his situation, had made a deep impression
upon me. I sat down to read the book which Spicer had made me a present
of. I was interrupted by my mother requesting me to go a message for
her, and during my absence Virginia had taken up the book.

"Who lent you this book, Tom?" said she, when I returned.

"Spicer, the man whom they call Black Sam, who is now dying in the
hospital."

"Well, that's not the name on the title-page--it is Walter James,
Tynemouth."

"Walter James, did you say, dear? Let me look! Even so."

"Why, what's the matter, Tom?" said my sister; "you look as if you were
puzzled."

And indeed I do not doubt but I did, for it at once recalled to my mind
that old Nanny's married name was _James_, and that Spicer had said that
his father was a sailor, and that he had died at the time that he was
born, which agreed with the narrative of old Nanny. The conclusions
which I came to in a moment made me shudder.

"Well, my dear, I was surprised, if not frightened; but you don't know
why, nor can I tell you, for it's not my secret. Let me look at the
book again."

Here my father came in, and the conversation took a different turn,
which I was not sorry for. I wished, however, to be left to my own
reflections; so I soon afterwards took up my candle and retired to my
room.

I turned the subject over in my mind in a hundred ways, but could not
come to any conclusion as to the best method of proceeding. At last I
thought I would see Peter Anderson the next day, and take his advice. I