g died. He was my own age,
and in the beginning of the voyage we had been playfellows. Of all the
children who swarmed on deck to the distraction of (at least) the
unmarried officers of the regiment, he had been the noisiest and the
merriest. He made fancy ships in corners, to which he admitted the other
children as fancy passengers, or fancy ship's officers of various
grades. Once he employed a dozen of us to haul at a rope as if we were
"heaving the log." Owing to an unexpected coil, it slackened suddenly,
and we all fell over one another at the feet of two young officers who
were marching up and down, arm-in-arm, absorbed in conversation. Their
anger was loud as well as deep, but it did not deter Arthur Curling from
further exploits, or stop his ceaseless chatter about what he would do
when he was a man and the captain of a vessel.

He did not live to be either the one or the other. Some very rough
weather off the Cape was fatal to him at a critical point in his
illness. How Mrs. Minchin contrived to keep her own feet and to nurse
the poor boy as she did was a marvel. He died on her knees.

The weather had been rough up to the time of his death, but it was a
calm lovely morning on which his body was committed to the deep. The
ship's bell tolled at daybreak, and all the ladies but the bride were
with poor Mrs. Curling at the funeral. Mrs. Seymour lay in her berth,
and whined complaints of "that horrid bell." She displayed something
between an interesting terror and a shrewish anger because there was "a
body on board." When she said that the Curlings ought to be thankful to
have one child less to provide for, the other ladies hurried indignantly
from the cabin.

The early morning air was fresh and mild. The sea and sky were grey, but
peaceful. The decks were freshly washed. The sailors in various parts of
the ship uncovered their heads. The Colonel and several officers were
present. I had earnestly begged to be there also, and finding Mr.
George, I stood with my hand in his.

Mrs. Curling's grief had passed the point of tears. She had not shed one
since the boy died, though Mrs. Minchin had tried hard to move her to
the natural relief of weeping. She only stood in silent agony, though
the Quartermaster's cheeks were wet, and most of the ladies sobbed
aloud.

As the little coffin slid over the hatchway into the quiet sea, the sun
rose, and a long level beam covered the place where the body had gone
down.

Then,