ore than fifty yards around any of the fishing-smacks.

Now it is probably known to most people that the greatest danger to
which those who do business on the sea are exposed is during fog.

When all around is calm and peaceful; when the sound of voices comes
with muffled sound over the smooth water; when the eye sees nothing save
a ghostly white horizon all round close at hand; when almost the only
sound that breaks on the ear is the gentle lapping of the sea, or the
quiet creak of plank and spar, as the vessel slowly lifts and falls on
the gentle swell, and when landsmen perchance feel most secure--then it
is that the dark cloud of danger lowers most heavily, though perhaps
unrecognised, over the mariner, and stirs him to anxious watchfulness,
when apparently in profoundest repose.

Jim Frost knew well the dangers of the situation, but he had been long
accustomed to face all the dangers peculiar to his calling on the deep
without flinching--strong in the confidence of his well-tried courage
and seamanship, and stronger still in his trust in Him who holds the
water in the hollow of His hand. Many a time had he been becalmed in
fog on the North Sea. He knew what to do, kept the fog-horn blowing,
and took all the steps for safety that were possible in the
circumstances.

But, somehow, the young fisherman did not feel his usual easy-going
indifference on that particular night, though his trust in God was not
less strong. He felt no fear, indeed, but a solemn sobriety of spirit
had taken the place of his wonted cheery temperament, and, instead of
singing in lively tones as he paced the deck, he hummed airs of a slow
pathetic kind in a soft undertone.

It is often said that men receive mysterious intimations, sometimes, of
impending disaster. It may be so. We cannot tell. Certainly it seemed
as if Jim Frost had received some such intimation that night.

"I can't understand it, Evan," he said to his mate when the latter came
on deck a little after midnight to relieve him. "A feeling as if
something was going to happen has taken possession of me, and I can't
shake it off. You know I'm not the man to fancy danger when there's
none."

Evan--a youth whom he had been the means of rescuing when about to fall,
under great temptation--replied that perhaps want of sleep was the
cause.

"You know," he said, "men become little better than babbies when they
goes long without sleep, an' you've not had much of late. What