s had seen all that was to be seen, enjoyed a cup of
coffee, prayed and sung with the crew, and wished them God-speed, they
went on shore, and the _Sunbeam_, hoisting her sails and shaking out the
blue flag, dropped quietly down the river.

Other smacks there were, very much like herself, coming and going, or
moored to the wharves, but as the visitors stood on the river bank and
waved their adieux, the thought was forced upon them how inconceivably
vast was the difference between those vessels which laboured for time
and this one which toiled for eternity.

Soon the _Sunbeam_ swept out upon the sea, bent over to the freshening
breeze, and steered on her beneficent course towards her double
fishing-ground.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE TIDE BEGINS TO TURN, AND DEATH STEPS IN.

Let us now, good reader, outstrip the _Sunbeam_, and, proceeding to the
fleet in advance of her, pay a night visit to one or two of the smacks.
We are imaginative creatures, you see, and the powers of imagination
are, as you know, almost illimitable. Even now, in fact, we have you
hovering over the dark sea, which, however, like the air above it, is
absolutely calm, so that the numerous lanterns of the fishing-vessels
around are flickering far down into the deep, like gleams of
perpendicular lightning.

It is Saturday night, and the particular vessel over which we hover is
the _Lively Poll_. Let us descend into her cabin.

A wonderful change has come over the vessel's crew since the advent of
the mission smack. Before that vessel joined the fleet, the chief
occupation of the men during the hours of leisure was gambling,
diversified now and then with stories and songs more or less profane.

On the night of which we write almost universal silence pervaded the
smack, because the men were profoundly engaged with book and pamphlet.
They could all read, more or less, though the reading of one or two
involved much spelling and knitting of the brows. But it was evident
that they were deeply interested, and utterly oblivious of all around
them. Like a schoolboy with a good story, they could not bear to be
interrupted, and were prone to explosive commentary.

David Duffy, who had fallen upon a volume of Dickens, was growing purple
in the face, because of his habit of restraining laughter until it
forced its way in little squeaks through his nose. Stephen Lockley, who
had evidently got hold of something more serious, sat on a locker, his
elbows