worthy, will serve him
if I can," was the answer.

Devereux continued in great danger; the surgeon would not assert that he
would recover. It was some time before he remarked Paul's attention to
him.

"You are boy Gerrard, I see," he observed faintly. "You are very good
to me, and more than I deserve from you; but I never meant you ill, and
I got you off a cobbing once. I have done very few good things in the
world, and now I am going to die, I am afraid. You'll forgive me,
Gerrard, won't you?"

"Oh, yes, yes, sir!" answered Paul, with tears in his eyes; "even if you
had wronged me much more than you have done; but it wasn't you, it was
your father and those about him."

"My father! What do you mean, boy; who are you?" exclaimed Devereux, in
a tone of astonishment, starting up for a moment, though he immediately
sank back exhausted; while he muttered to himself,--"Gerrard! Gerrard!
can it be possible?" He then asked quietly--

"Where do you come from, boy?"

"No matter, sir," answered Paul, afraid of agitating Devereux. "I will
tell you another time, for I hope that you will get well soon, and then
you may be able to listen to what I have to say; but the doctor says
that at present you must be kept perfectly quiet, and talk as little as
possible."

Devereux, who was still very weak, did not persist in questioning Paul,
who had time to reflect how far it would be wise to say anything about
himself. He was not compelled to be communicative; and he considered
that Devereux ill, and expecting to die, and Devereux well, might
possibly be two very different characters. "If I were to tell him, he
might bestow on me a sort of hypocritical compassion, and I could not
stand that," he thought to himself. Whatever were Paul's feelings, he
did not relax in his care of Devereux.

Day after day came, and the first question asked of the morning watch
was, "Is there anything like the _Alerte_ yet ahead?" All day, too, a
bright look-out was kept from the mast-heads for her; but in vain, and
some began to think that she must have altered her course and returned
to the coast of France.

Paul was not sorry when he heard this, for he had seen enough of the
effects of fighting to believe that it was not a desirable occupation;
and he, moreover, felt for young Alphonse, who naturally earnestly hoped
that the _Cerberus_ would not fall in with the _Alerte_.

No one rejoiced more than did Paul when one day Mr Lancet prono