emselves on to the high keel. Four or five
seas came in quick succession; the boat reached shallow water; the mast
snapped with a loud crash, and within a few seconds Tommy said--

"Jump now, men, for it."

Up to their waists in water, the men clambered on to the sand and looked
round, only to see the wreck of their coble beating herself to pieces
with heavy lunges twenty yards from the shore.

Tommy spat the salt water out of his mouth, and fell upon his knees. He
then walked up to the village, changed his clothes, behaved with
elephantine tenderness to his mother, and walked out in the darkness to
see his friend, the gardener. He sat on the settle in the low kitchen,
and smoked solemnly without speaking. The next night he appeared at the
same hour, and spent his evening in the same composed manner. For three
weeks he never missed a night, and the gardener's family were puzzled to
an extraordinary degree by the sombre expression of his face, and by his
abstinence from the rude remarks which were wont to characterize his
conversation concerning his friends and neighbours. Mrs. Wray, the
gardener's wife, said one evening, "I wonder what the lout comes
doddering about here for. He sits as if some of the lads had cutten his
tongue out." The very next night Tommy solved her obstinate
questionings. He said, "Mary, my hinny, I have found God;" and the next
afternoon Walter Musgrave was astonished and pleased to see the fierce
face of Tommy glaring from the seat opposite the pulpit. This dumb man
had no means of expressing the feelings that were taking possession of
him. He only knew that he felt kindly towards all living things, and,
above all, he felt as though he must manifest a feeling akin to worship
when he was in the gentle presence of Musgrave.

Year after year, until his mother died, he never failed in his kindness
towards her, and the old dame was wont to express a kind of comic
surprise at the womanish demeanour of her son. He caught fish for his
living, but a cramped piece of reasoning forced him to the conclusion
that it would be wrong for him to shoot any more birds. He said, "The
birds was made by God, and God's been good to me, and I am not going to
hurt them." Sunday after Sunday in all weathers he strode off to the
moor. Wayfarers would meet him at night when the wind was hurling down
from the Cheviots and bringing clouds of snow. He had but one salutation
for all who met him: "Good night, my man; God bles