nder the guidance of that Spirit in
whose likeness the most lowly of the race has been created.

The passage was long, but very tranquil, and there was ample time for all
that has been related. The ship was still to the eastward of the Grand
Banks, when Marble ceased to converse much; though it is evident his
thoughts were intently musing. He fell away fast, and I began to look
forward to his final departure, as an event that might occur at any hour.
He did not seem to suffer, but his hold of life gradually gave way, and
the spirit was about to take its departure, purely on account of the
decayed condition of the earthly tenement in which it had so long dwelt,
as the stork finally deserts the tottering chimney.

About a week after this change, my son Miles came to me on deck, and
informed me his dear mother desired to see me in the cabin. On going
below, I was met by Lucy, with a face that denoted how solemn she felt
was the character of the intelligence she had to communicate.

"The moment is at hand, dear Miles," she said.--"Our old friend is about
to be called away."

I felt a pang at this speech, though I had long expected the result. Many
of the earlier and more adventurous years of my life passed rapidly in
review before me, and I found the image of the dying man blended with
nearly all. Whatever may have been his peculiarities, to me he had always
been true. From the hour when I first shipped, as a runaway boy, on board
the John, down to that hour, Moses Marble had proved himself a firm and
disinterested friend to Miles Wallingford.

"Is he conscious?" I asked, anxiously. "When I last saw him, I thought his
mind wandered a little."

"Perhaps it did; but he is now more collected, if not entirely so. There
is reason to think he has at length felt some of the influence of the
Redeemer's sacrifice. For the last week, the proofs of this have been
increasing."

No more passed between Lucy and me, on the subject, at that time; but I
entered the cabin in which the cot of Marble had been slung. It was a
spacious, airy room, for a ship; one that had been expressly fitted by my
orders, for the convenience of Lucy and her two daughters, but which those
dear, self-denying creatures had early and cheerfully given up to the
possession of their old friend.

As yet, I have not particularly spoken of these two girls, the eldest of
whom was named Grace, and the youngest Lucy. At that time, the first was
just fifteen, while