ir youthful bodies. The
truth was, the young folk were utter strangers and foreigners to the
man who had married late in life. So long as his gentle, tender
wife--a woman eminently fitted for her niche in life by her sweet
nature and her heart filled with Christian grace--lived, the captain's
children were well cared for indeed. Their needs both of body and soul
were alike looked after. But the mother who was so qualified by her
rare sweetness to bring up the children God had given her 'in the
nurture and admonition of the Lord,' was called away to a higher,
fuller life 'beyond these voices'; and the sailor, taking the reins of
the household in his unaccustomed fingers, held them over-slackly.

CHAPTER XII

IN THE FAR NORTH

It was June, the 'leafy month': Nature was dressed out in her newest
and freshest of robes, and the homes of her feathered children were
peopled with tiny birdlings, all agape with hunger and curiosity.

Through the shady Brattlesby Woods, and along the hedgerows, stealing
softly, stepping cautiously, crept Jerry Blunt, with his empty sleeve
flapping against his right side, and as he went he peered here and
there where leaves grew thickest. In his wake followed, on tip-toe,
Alick Carnegy and Ned Dempster, all three intent on seeking for young
bullfinches.

When Jerry Blunt ran away to sea from his native village, Northbourne,
with his soul athirst for adventure, his body was furnished with as
many limbs as other folk. Little did he dream that the golden future
he panted to grasp would make of him a cripple. As time went by, and
he became a full-grown man, Jerry had his fill of hairbreadth escapes,
his last exploit of all being to join an enterprising American
expedition got up in the name of science to find the North Pole. This
venture, one of many, proved the most unfortunate of all for Jerry
Blunt. Through his own heedless carelessness in refusing to listen to
the advice of his experienced betters, he neglected a severe
frost-bite; in consequence, he lost his arm, which had to be amputated
by the ship's surgeon. After this catastrophe, Jerry as a man on that
expedition was worth little or nothing. So he returned, in course of
time, to his native place, 'like a bad shilling,' said Northbourne--and
with an empty coat-sleeve.

'The right arm, too, worse luck!' was all the sympathy he got, and
Jerry, therefore, began to look round for himself. He knew it was
imperative on him