despair! Lost--lost--lost!"

"Oh, no, no, no!" Boy as he was, Freddy felt his young heart thrill at the
cry. "You're not lost yet. You're never lost while you live. You can
always say an act of contrition, you know, and--and--" Freddy's voice
faltered, for the role of spiritual adviser was a new one; but he had not
gone through the big Catechism last year without learning a young Catholic
Christian's obligations. "Would--would you like me to say an act of
contrition for you?" he asked.

There was no answer save in the strange softening of the eyes fixed upon
the boyish face. And, feeling that his patient was too far gone for
speech, Freddy dropped on his knees, and in a sweet, trembling tone
repeated the brief, blessed words of sorrow for sin, the plea for pardon,
the promise of amendment. It had been a long, long time since those
familiar words had fallen on his listener's ears; a longer time since they
had reached his heart. For years he had believed nothing, hoped nothing,
feared nothing. Life had been to him a dull blank, broken only by reckless
adventure; death, the end of all. But for three days and nights he had
lain helpless, fever-smitten, stricken down in all his proud strength in
this wilderness, with no friends but his dogs, no home but the ruined hut
into which he had crawled for shelter, no human aid within reach or call.
The derelict, as he had called himself to Dan, had drifted on the rocks
beyond hope and help, as derelicts must. And in those three days and
nights he had realized that for him there was no light in sea or
sky,--that all was darkness forever.

And then young voices had broken in upon the black silence; and, opening
his eyes, closed on hideous fever dreams, he had seen Freddy,--Freddy, who
was not a dream; Freddy, who was kneeling by his side, whispering sweet,
forgotten words of peace and hope and pardon; Freddy--Freddy--he could not
speak, there was such a stirring in the depths of his heart and soul. He
could only stretch out his weak, trembling hand, that Freddy met with a
warm, boyish grip.

"Oh, I'm here yet!" he said, thinking his patient needed the
reassurance. "I'm staying here right by you, to say prayers, or get water
or anything you want. Dan left me here to take care of you. He has gone
for the doctor; and if you just hold on till they get here, why,
maybe--maybe--they'll pull you through all right. Gee whilikins!"
exclaimed Freddy, as the sick man suddenly started up fro