p to Jack, she put out her flat little
nose to be rubbed, and thereafter paid the same compliment to Peterkin
and me.

An hour later the canoe was out of sight, and we, with an indefinable
feeling of sadness creeping round our hearts, were seated in silence
beneath the shadow of our bower, meditating on the wonderful events of
the last few days.

CHAPTER XXI.

Sagacious and moral remarks in regard to life--A sail!--An unexpected
salute--The end of the black cat--A terrible dive--An incautious
proceeding and a frightful catastrophe.

Life is a strange compound. Peterkin used to say of it, that it beat a
druggist's shop all to sticks; for, whereas the first is a compound of
good and bad, the other is a horrible compound of all that is utterly
detestable. And indeed the more I consider it the more I am struck with
the strange mixture of good and evil that exists not only in the material
earth but in our own natures. In our own Coral Island we had experienced
every variety of good that a bountiful Creator could heap on us. Yet on
the night of the storm we had seen how almost, in our case,--and
altogether, no doubt, in the case of others less fortunate--all this good
might be swept away for ever. We had seen the rich fruit-trees waving in
the soft air, the tender herbs shooting upwards under the benign
influence of the bright sun; and, the next day, we had seen these good
and beautiful trees and plants uprooted by the hurricane, crushed and
hurled to the ground in destructive devastation. We had lived for many
months in a clime for the most part so beautiful, that we had often
wondered whether Adam and Eve had found Eden more sweet; and we had seen
the quiet solitudes of our paradise suddenly broken in upon by ferocious
savages, and the white sands stained with blood and strewed with lifeless
forms; yet, among these cannibals, we had seen many symptoms of a kindly
nature. I pondered these things much, and, while I considered them,
there recurred to my memory those words which I had read in my Bible,--the
works of God are wonderful, and his ways past finding out.

After these poor savages had left us, we used to hold long and frequent
conversations about them, and I noticed that Peterkin's manner was now
much altered. He did not, indeed, jest less heartily than before, but he
did so less frequently, and often there was a tone of deep seriousness in
his manner, if not in his words, which made him seem to J