hing. I hadn't a dollar left. At one of
the piers I came across a schooner that wanted a cook, and I shipped
right off. Then the cap'n's nephew wanted to cook for him, after we got
to Bangor, and I was out of a job. I worked in an eating-house for a
while, cooking; but my health was so bad I wanted to go to a warm
climate; so I shipped in this brig for the West Indies. It was warm
enough there, but I didn't get any better. I don't think I'm as stout as
I was when I left Bangor. I shall not hold out much longer."

"O, yes, you will. You may live to be a hundred years old yet," added
Wallbridge, rather lightly.

"No; my end isn't a great way off," added the steward, with a sigh, as
the passenger, evidently not pleased with the turn the conversation had
taken, walked away from the galley.

Any one who looked at Harvey Barth would have found no difficulty in
accepting his gloomy prediction; and yet he was, as events occurred,
farther from his end than his companions in the brig. The steward sat
before his stove, gazing at the planks of the deck under his feet. He
was deeply impressed by the words he had uttered if the passenger was
not. He had improved the opportunity, while the weather was calm to
write up his diary, and perhaps the thoughts he had expressed on its
pages had started a train of gloomy reflections. The future seemed to
have nothing inviting to him, and his attention was fixed upon an open
grave at no great distance before him in the pathway of his life. Beyond
that he had hardly taught himself to look; if he had he would,
doubtless, have been less sad and gloomy.

His work for the day had all been done; supper in the cabin had been
served, and the beef and hard bread had been given to the crew two hours
before. It was a day in August, and the sun had lingered long above the
horizon. Harvey had finished writing in his diary when the passenger
interrupted him; but, apparently to change the current of his thoughts,
he took the book from the box, and began to read what he had written.

"I don't know what his name is, but I don't believe it's Wallbridge,"
said he, to himself, as the last page recalled the reflections which had
caused him to make some of the entries in the book. "That wasn't the
name I found on the paper in his state-room, though the initials were
the same. I don't see what he changed his name for; but that's none of
my business. I only hope he hasn't been doing anything wrong."

"My pipe's