that it must be monsters ruling the world rather than men. If the
prayers of mothers and wives and orphans could only be heard, I am sure
that war, and the danger of war, would soon be over. But why are you
worrying about an invasion?"

"Well, Great Britain has a good many enemies, you know, mother, and
people are talking about a possible invasion. Besides, I've got to write
something about it next term, and it won't do for the son of a captain
to make a mess of it altogether."

"Write something?" questioned Mrs. Percival, turning pale. Ah, the
terrible fascination of the sea! Was it going to claim her son as it had
claimed her husband? "How is that?"

"A prize has been offered for the best paper on 'The Invasion of Great
Britain.' I may as well have a cut in."

"By all means, Paul; but for my sake--for my sake"--placing her hand
upon his shoulder--"don't think too much about the sea."

She leant forward and kissed him; then went hurriedly from the room.
Paul knew that it was his duty to do as his mother told him, but he
found it very hard. He was a stalwart lad of fifteen, with the blood of
two generations of seamen in his veins, so that it seemed as though his
very blood were part of the brine of the ocean.

He stood by the window, looking from the old Manor House in which he
lived to the road. Presently he saw Job Brice, who did odd jobs about
the house and garden, walking across the grounds to the paddock. Job had
been a seaman in the Navy at the same time as his father, and for that
reason had been given employment, to add to his pension, at the Manor
House; but he rarely spoke about his seafaring life to our hero. Paul
suspected that this, in a large measure, was due to his mother, for
whenever Job did speak, he always dwelt on the most unattractive side of
a sailor's life.

So soon as Paul caught sight of Job, he seized his cap, and went after
him. He came up with him just as he had entered the paddock.

"I say, Brice, I've just been talking to mother about father. I don't
like to question her too much, for I can see it gives her pain."

"Quite right, Master Paul; it does give her pain," said Job, turning his
scarred, weather-beaten face to the boy; "and it's very good of you to
think of her. It ain't all boys who're so thoughtful of their mother."

"Oh, don't butter me, Brice, for I'm long chalks from deserving it. But
perhaps you wouldn't mind answering me a question I could never quite
make out. I'