g over him, saw a bright smile upon his tanned, weather-beaten
face. Raising himself upon his pillow he touched his forelock, as is
the habit of sailor-men, and so sank slowly and peacefully back into the
long sleep which wakes when the night has ceased to be.

You will ask me doubtless what became of Hector Marot and of the strange
shipload which had set sail from Poole Harbour. There was never a word
heard of them again, unless indeed a story which was spread some months
afterwards by Captain Elias Hopkins, of the Bristol ship _Caroline_, may
be taken as bearing upon their fate. For Captain Hopkins relates that,
being on his homeward voyage from our settlements, he chanced to meet
with thick fogs and a head wind in the neighbourhood of the great cod
banks. One night as he was beating about, with the weather so thick that
he could scarce see the truck of his own mast, a most strange passage
befell him. For as he and others stood upon the deck, they heard to
their astonishment the sound of many voices joined in a great chorus,
which was at first faint and distant, but which presently waxed and
increased until it appeared to pass within a stone-throw of his vessel,
when it slowly died away once more and was lost in the distance. There
were some among the crew who set the matter down as the doing of the
evil one, but, as Captain Elias Hopkins was wont to remark, it was a
strange thing that the foul fiend should choose West-country hymns for
his nightly exercise, and stranger still that the dwellers in the pit
should sing with a strong Somersetshire burr. For myself, I have little
doubt that it was indeed the _Dorothy Fox_ which had swept past in the
fog, and that the prisoners, having won their freedom, were celebrating
their delivery in true Puritan style. Whether they were driven on to the
rocky coast of Labrador, or whether they found a home in some desolate
land whence no kingly cruelty could harry them, is what must remain for
ever unknown.

Zachariah Palmer lived for many years, a venerable and honoured old man,
before he, too, was called to his fathers. A sweet and simple village
philosopher he was, with a child's heart in his aged breast. The very
thought of him is to me as the smell of violets; for if in my views of
life and in my hopes of the future I differ somewhat from the hard and
gloomy teaching of my father, I know that I owe it to the wise words
and kindly training of the carpenter. If, as he was himself