no response in the
mind of old Mrs. Prichard, until it ended with the tragedy at Southend.
The name brought back that terrible early experience of the sailing of
the convict-ship--of her despairing effort at a farewell to be somehow
heard or seen by the man whom she almost thought of as in a grave,
buried alive! She was back again in the boat in the Medway, keeping the
black spot ahead in view--the accursed galley that was bearing away her
life, her very life; the man no sin could change from what he was to
her; the treasure of her being. She could hear again the monotonous beat
of her rowers' pair of oars, ill-matched against the four sweeps of the
convicts, ever gaining--gaining....

Surely she would be too late for that last chance, that seemed to her
the one thing left to live for. And then the upspringing of that blessed
breeze off the land that saved it for her. She could recall her terror
lest the flagging of their speed for the hoisting of the sail should
undo them; the reassuring voice of a hopeful boatman--"You be easy,
missis; we'll catch 'em up!"--the less confident one of his mate--"Have
a try at it, anyhow!" Then her joy when the sail filled and the plashing
of her way spoke Hope beneath her bulwark as she caught the wind. Then
her dread that the Devil's craft ahead would make sail too, and
overreach them after all, and the blessing in her heart for her hopeful
oarsman, whose view was that the officer in charge would not spare his
convicts any work he could inflict. "He'll see to it they arn their
breaffastis, missis. _He_ ain't going to unlock their wristis off of the
oars for to catch a ha'porth o' blow. You may put your money on him for
that." And then the sweet ship upon the water, and her last sight of the
man she loved as he was dragged aboard into the Hell within--scarcely a
man now--only "213 M"!

Then the long hours that followed, there in the open boat beneath the
sun, whose setting found her still gazing in her dumb despair on what
was to be his floating home for months. Such a home! Scraps of her own
men's talk were with her still--the names of passing craft--the
discontent in the fleet--the names of landmarks on either coast. Among
these Southend--the word that caught her ear and set her a-thinking. But
there was no pier two miles long there then. She was sure of that.

What was it Mr. Bartlett was talking about now? A grievance this time!
But grievances are the breath of life to the Human