We were past mustering a story now; but one day, at about this period, I reverted to the superstition of old Mr. Rarx, concerning the Golden Lucy, and told them that nothing vanished from the eye of God, though much might pass away from the eyes of men.  “We were all of us,” says I, “children once; and our baby feet have strolled in green woods ashore; and our baby hands have gathered flowers in gardens, where the birds were singing.  The children that we were, are not lost to the great knowledge of our Creator.  Those innocent creatures will appear with us before Him, and plead for us.  What we were in the best time of our generous youth will arise and go with us too.  The purest part of our lives will not desert us at the pass to which all of us here present are gliding.  What we were then, will be as much in existence before Him, as what we are now.”  They were no less comforted by this consideration, than I was myself; and Miss Coleshaw, drawing my ear nearer to her lips, said, “Captain Ravender, I was on my way to marry a disgraced and broken man, whom I dearly loved when he was honourable and good.  Your words seem to have come out of my own poor heart.”  She pressed my hand upon it, smiling.

Twenty-seven nights and twenty-six days.  We were in no want of rain-water, but we had nothing else.  And yet, even now, I never turned my eyes upon a waking face but it tried to brighten before mine.  O, what a thing it is, in a time of danger and in the presence of death, the shining of a face upon a face!  I have heard it broached that orders should be given in great new ships by electric telegraph.  I admire machinery as much is any man, and am as thankful to it as any man can be for what it does for us.  But it will never be a substitute for the face of a man, with his soul in it, encouraging another man to be brave and true.  Never try it for that.  It will break down like a straw.

I now began to remark certain changes in myself which I did not like.  They caused me much disquiet.  I often saw the Golden Lucy in the air above the boat.  I often saw her I have spoken of before, sitting beside me.  I saw the Golden Mary go down, as she really had gone down, twenty times in a day.  And yet the sea was mostly, to my thinking, not sea neither, but moving country and extraordinary mountainous regions, the like of which have never been beheld.  I felt it time to leave my last words regarding John Steadiman, in case any lips should last out to repeat them to any living ears.  I said that John had told me (as he had on deck) that he had sung out “Breakers ahead!” the instant they were audible, and had tried to wear ship, but she struck before it could be done. (His cry, I dare say, had made my dream.) I said that the circumstances were altogether without warning, and out of any course that could have been guarded against; that the same loss would have happened if I had been in charge; and that John was not to blame, but from first to last had done his duty nobly, like the man he was.  I tried to write it down in my pocket-book, but could make no words, though I knew what the words were that I wanted to make.  When it had come to that, her hands—­though she was dead so long—­laid me down gently in the bottom of the boat, and she and the Golden Lucy swung me to sleep.