“Ah, father, yonder stands one stone, at least, that calls forth feelings of sorrow.”

Fred pointed as he spoke to Store Island, which was just passing out of view.  On this lonely spot the men had raised a large stone over the grave of Joseph West.  O’Riley, whose enthusiastic temperament had caused him to mourn over his comrade more, perhaps, than any other man in the ship, had carved the name and date of his death in rude characters on the stone.  It was a conspicuous object on the low island, and every eye in the Dolphin was fixed on it as they passed.  Soon the point of rock that had sheltered them so long from many a westerly gale intervened and shut it out from view for ever.

When man’s prospects are at the worst, it often happens that some unexpected success breaks on his path like a bright sunbeam.  Alas! it often happens, also, that when his hopes are high and his prospects brightest, a dark cloud overspreads him like a funeral pall.  We might learn a lesson from this—­the lesson of dependence on that Saviour who careth for us, and of trust in that blessed assurance that “all things work together for good to them that love God.”

A week of uninterrupted fair wind and weather had carried the Dolphin far to the south of their dreary wintering ground, and all was going well, when the worst of all disasters befell the ship—­she caught fire!  How it happened no one could tell.  The smoke was first seen rising suddenly from the hold.  Instantly the alarm was spread.

“Firemen, to your posts!” shouted the captain.  “Man the water-buckets!  Steady, men; no hurry.  Keep order.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” was the short, prompt response, and the most perfect order was kept.  Every command was obeyed instantly with a degree of vigour that is seldom exhibited save in cases of life and death.

Buzzby was at the starboard and Peter Grim at the larboard gangway, while the men stood in two rows, extending from each to the main hatch, up which ever thickening clouds of dark smoke were rolling.  Bucket after bucket of water was passed along and dashed into the hold, and everything that could be done was done, but without effect.  The fire increased.  Suddenly a long tongue of flame issued from the smoking cavern, and lapped round the mast and rigging with greedy eagerness.

“There’s no hope,” said Captain Ellice in a low voice, laying his hand gently on Captain Guy’s shoulder.

The captain did not reply, but gazed with an expression of the deepest regret, for one moment, at the work of destruction.

Next instant he sprang to the falls of the larboard quarter-boat.

“Now, lads,” he cried energetically, “get out the boats.  Bring up provisions, Mr. Bolton, and a couple of spare sails.—­Mr. Saunders, see to the ammunition and muskets.  Quick, men.  The cabin will soon be too hot to hold you.”

Setting the example, the captain sprang below, followed by Fred and Tom Singleton, who secured the charts, a compass, chronometer, and quadrant; also the log-book and the various journals and records of the voyage.  Captain Ellice also did active service, and being cool and self-possessed he recollected and secured several articles which were afterwards of the greatest use, and which, but for him, would in such a trying moment have probably been forgotten.