ould it not be a cruelty to bring
them to what we call civilisation?"

"I think it would," said Stannistreet.

Lestrange said nothing, but continued pacing the deck, his head bowed
and his hands behind his back.

One evening at sunset, Stannistreet said:

"We're two hundred and forty miles from the island, reckoning from
to-day's reckoning at noon. We're going all ten knots even with this
breeze; we ought to fetch the place this time to-morrow. Before that if
it freshens."

"I am greatly disturbed," said Lestrange.

He went below, and the schooner captain shook his head, and, locking
his arm round a ratlin, gave his body to the gentle roll of the craft
as she stole along, skirting the sunset, splendid, and to the nautical
eye full of fine weather.

The breeze was not quite so fresh next morning, but it had been blowing
fairly all the night, and the Raratonga had made good way. About eleven
it began to fail. It became the lightest sailing breeze, just
sufficient to keep the sails drawing, and the wake rippling and
swirling behind. Suddenly Stannistreet, who had been standing talking
to Lestrange, climbed a few feet up the mizzen ratlins, and shaded his
eyes.

"What is it?" asked Lestrange.

"A boat," he replied. "Hand me that glass you will find in the sling
there."

He levelled the glass, and looked for a long time without speaking.

"It's a boat adrift--a small boat, nothing in her. Stay! I see
something white, can't make it out. Hi there!"--to the fellow at the
wheel. "Keep her a point more to starboard." He got on to the deck.
"We're going dead on for her."

"Is there any one in her?" asked Lestrange.

"Can't quite make out, but I'll lower the whale-boat and fetch her
alongside."

He gave orders for the whale-boat to be slung out and manned.

As they approached nearer, it was evident that the drifting boat, which
looked like a ship's dinghy, contained something, but what, could not
be made out.

When he had approached near enough, Stannistreet put the helm down and
brought the schooner to, with her sails all shivering. He took his
place in the bow of the whale-boat and Lestrange in the stern. The boat
was lowered, the falls cast off, and the oars bent to the water.

The little dinghy made a mournful picture as she floated, looking
scarcely bigger than a walnut shell. In thirty strokes the whaleboat's
nose was touching her quarter. Stannistreet grasped her gunwale.

In the bottom of the dinghy