hames, on board of the Indiaman, Lord William Bentick, and were on
board of that ship when an unfortunate circumstance occurred to her on
entering a British North American port, many years ago. Here they sat
recounting the many adventures through which they had passed since
that period, the ships they had sailed in, the sufferings they had gone
through, and the narrow escapes they had had for their lives, until past
midnight. Manuel wound up by giving a detailed account of his sufferings
in Charleston.

"What!" said the steward of the Charleston ship, "then you must have
known our cabin-boy, he belonged to the same vessel!"

"What was his name?" inquired Manuel.

"Tommy Ward! and as nice a little fellow as ever served the cabin; poor
little fellow, we could hardly get him across."

"Gracious! that's my Tommy," said Manuel. "Where is he? He loves me as
he does his life, and would run to me as a child would to its father.
Little as he is, he has been a friend through my severest trials, and a
companion in my pleasures."

"Ah, poor child! I'm afraid you wouldn't know him now. He has suffered
much since you saw him."

"Is he not aboard? Where can I find him?" inquired Manuel, hastily.

"No, he is not aboard; he is at the hospital in Dennison street. Go
there to-morrow, and you will find him."

CHAPTER XXX. THE SCENE OF ANGUISH.

WE are sorry, that having traced the details of our narrative as they
occurred, without adding for dramatic effect, we are constrained to
conclude with a picture at once painful and harrowing to the feelings.
We do this that we may be sustained by records, in what we have stated,
rather than give one of those more popular conclusions which restore
happiness and relieve the reader's feelings.

Manuel retired to his berth, full of meditation. His little companion
was before him, pictured in his child-like innocence and playfulness. He
saw him in the youthful zeal and freshness of the night when he brought
the well-laden haversack into his dreary cell, and which kind act was
repaid by a night of suffering in the guard-house. There was too much of
life and buoyancy in the picture his imagination called up, to reconcile
the belief that any thing serious had befallen him; and yet the man
spoke in a manner that aroused the intensity of his feelings. It was a
whisper full of fearful forebodings, and filled his mind with anxious
expectation. He could not sleep-the anxiety of his feelings