place
for a moment ere she vanished said, "Such is the reward of goodness.
Fare thee well, sweet briar!"

[Illustration: {Tom and Pearson on the deck of the ship in the snow}]

WORKING IS BETTER THAN WISHING.

"Now then, Tom, lad, what's up? in trouble again?" asked a
good-natured sailor of his messmate, one snowy day on the wide
Atlantic.

The boy was leaning moodily against the bulwarks of the vessel--a
pleasant, ruddy young fellow of fourteen, but with a cloud on his face
which looked very like discontent.

Snow was falling heavily, but he did not heed it; he looked up,
however, at the approach of his friend, and answered,--

"I'm all right, Pearson; it isn't that. I was only wishing and
wondering why I can't get what I want; it seems a shame, it does!" and
Tom paused abruptly, half choked by a sob.

"What is it, Tom?" asked Pearson; "have the other lads been plaguing?
Such a big, hearty fellow as you ought not to fret for that."

"I don't," said Tom, sharply; "it's not that; but they've found out
that my little brother is in the workhouse at home, and they throw it
at me. I'd do anything to get him out, too, for he oughtn't to be
there: we come of a better sort, Pearson," he said, proudly; "but
father and mother dying of that fever put us all wrong. Uncle got me
to sea, and then, I suppose, he thought he'd done enough; so there was
only the workhouse left for Willy. He's the jolliest little chap,
Pearson, you ever saw, and I'd work day and night to get him out, if I
could; but where's the use? A poor boy like me can do nothing; so I
just get in a rage, or don't care about anything, and fight the other
lads; or I'm had up for neglect of duty, or something."

"And so you lose all chance of getting on, and being able in time to
help your little brother," said Pearson, as if musing; "but what's
that you have in your hand, Tom--a picture?"

"It's Willy," said the boy; "yes, you may look, Pearson. Mother had it
taken just before she fell ill; he's only four, but he's the prettiest
little chap, with yellow hair all in curls. I dare say they've cut
them off, though," he added, bitterly. "There's a bit of a sickly
child on board, belonging to the tall lady in black, that reminds me a
little of him, only he isn't near as pretty as Willy."

"Yes, he is a pretty little lad," said Pearson, returning the
photograph; "and now, Tom, mind my word: I am an old fellow compared
to you, and I'll give you a bit of a