s of this lonely form.

I stepped up and touched him softly on the arm.

"Sir, I am come to beg your forgiveness."

Next morning I joined the conspiracy.

After his father, I became Johnny's most constant companion. "Father
disliked you at first," was the child's frank comment; "he said you
told fibs, but now he wants us to be friends." And we were excellent
friends. I lied from morning to night--lied glibly, grandly.
Sometimes, indeed, as I lay awake in my berth, a horror took me lest
the springs of my imagination should run dry. But they never did. As a
liar, I out-classed every man on board.

But by-and-bye, as we caught the first draught of the trades, the boy
began to punctuate my fables with that hateful cough. This went on for
a week; and one day, in the midst of our short stroll, his legs gave
way under him. As I caught him in my arms, he looked up with a smile.

"I'm very weak, you know. But it'll be all right when I get to
England."

But it was not till we had passed well beyond the equatorial belt that
Johnny grew visibly worse. In a week he had to lie still on his couch
beneath the awning, and the patter of his feet ceased on the deck. The
captain, who was a bit of a doctor, said to me one day--

"He will never live to see England."

But he did.

It was a soft spring afternoon when the _Midas_ sighted the Lizard,
and Johnny was still with us, lying on his couch, though almost too
weak to move a limb. As the day wore on we lifted him once or twice to
look.

"Can you see them quite plain?" he asked; "and the precious stones
hanging on the trees? And the palaces--and the white elephants?"

I stared through my glass at the serpentine rocks and white-washed
lighthouse above them, all powdered with bronze and gold by the
sinking sun, and answered--

"Yes, they are all there."

All that afternoon we were beside him, looking out and peopling the
shores of home with all manner of vain shows and pageants; and when
one man broke down another took his place.

As the sun fell, and twilight drew on, the bright revolving lights on
the two towers suddenly flashed out their greeting. We were about to
carry the child below, for the air was chilly; but he saw the flash,
and held up a feeble hand.

"What is that?"

"Those two lights," I answered, telling my final lie, "are the
lanterns of Cormelian and Cormoran, the two Cornish giants. They'll
be standing on the shore to welcome us. See--each swings his l