resting on his knees, the book in his hands, and a solemn frown
on his face. Hawkson was making desperate efforts to commit to memory a
hymn, with the tune of which he had recently fallen in love, and the
meaning of which was, unknown to himself, slowly but surely entering
deep into his awakening soul. Bob Lumsden, who read his pamphlet by the
binnacle light on deck, had secured an American magazine, the humorous
style of which, being quite new to him, set him off ever and anon into
hearty ripples of laughter.

But they were not equally persevering, for Joe Stubley, to whom reading
was more of a toil than a pleasure, soon gave in, and recurred to his
favourite game of "checkers." The mate, Peter Jay, was slowly pacing
the deck in profound meditation. His soul had been deeply stirred by
some of the words which had fallen from the lips of John Binning, and
perplexities as well as anxieties were at that time struggling fiercely
in his mind.

"Well done, little marchioness!" exclaimed David Duffy, with eyes
riveted on his book, and smiting his knee with his right palm, "you're a
trump!"

"Shush!" exclaimed Lockley, with eyes also glued to his book, holding up
his hand as if to check interruption. "There's somethin' in this,
although I can't quite see it yet."

A roar of laughter on deck announced that Bob Lumsden had found
something quite to his taste. "First-rate--ha! ha! I wonder if it's
all true."

"Hold your noise there," cried Hawkson; "who d'ee think can learn off a
hymn wi' you shoutin' like a bo'sun's mate an' Duffy snortin' like a
grampus?"

"Ah, just so," chimed in Stubley, looking up from his board. "Why don't
you let it out, David? You'll bu'st the b'iler if you don't open a
bigger safety-valve than your nose."

"Smack on the weather beam, that looks like the Gospel ship, sir," said
the mate, looking down the hatchway.

The skipper closed his book at once and went on deck, but the night was
so dark, and the smack in question so far off, that they were unable to
make her out among the numerous lights of the fleet.

In another part of that fleet, not far distant, floated the _Cormorant_.
Here too, as in many other smacks, the effects of the _Sunbeam's_
beneficent influence had begun to tell. Groggy Fox's crew was noted as
one of the most quarrelsome and dissipated in the fleet. On this
particular Saturday night, however, all was quiet, for most of the men
were busy with books, pamphlets, an