The master of the “Coquet” had been seventy-two hours on the bridge, and he was nearly asleep as he walked.  In trying to get to his berth he fell face foremost, and slept on the cabin-floor in his wet oilskin suit.  When he woke he had a nastier problem than ever, for his compasses were gone, and the ship had a dangerous “list.”  However, he soon bethought him of a tiny pocket-compass which he had in his state-room.  Working with this, and managing to get a sight of the sun, he contrived to get within fourteen miles of Gibraltar—­which was very fair seamanship.  He reached Genoa; but the ship was sixteen days overdue, and the people at home were alarmed.  On the morning after the “Coquet’s” arrival one of her owners looked through a local journal, and, finding no good news, went and got his shares under-written 60 per cent. more.  On coming out of the office he was met by a friend, who heartily congratulated him on his good luck.  When he asked wherein the good luck consisted, he was shown a paragraph in another local journal which stated that “The steamship ‘Coquet’ arrived at Genoa, sixteen days overdue.  Boats gone, port bulwark gone, compasses gone, and two men lost overboard.”

The lesson to be learned from the “Coquet’s” escape is simple.  In that very gale as many men were killed at sea as would have fallen in a moderately important battle.  The number of missing steamers was great, and there is no doubt but that most of these vessels foundered.  The “Coquet” was built under the eye of a critic who did not suffer champagne to bias his ideas of solid workmanship.  She is still earning heavy dividends for her owners.  The steamers that broke in two and went down were not superintended on the stocks by a shrewd and vigilant overlooker:  so they drowned their crews.

THE SIBYL.

An old woman lived in a one-roomed cottage among the sand hills bordering the sea.  Her place was only a hut with thatched roof and stone floor, but coals were plentiful, so Mary was able to make herself very comfortable.  The wind made a great noise with moaning and shrieking among the bents, but Mary was not learned enough in romantic literature to be moved by weird sounds.  She did not like to hear a fox howl on the hill, because that woeful cry boded ill fortune; but the tumult of ordinary winter evenings never affected her.  All day she crouched over her fire, filling her pipe at intervals with coarse tobacco, and smoking sedately.  She did not look up when people entered, for her sight was dim; yet she knew the tread and the voice of every lad in the village who had once been in her company, and she very rarely made mistakes in bestowing her greetings.  Her face was like a walnut-shell, so deep and intricate were the creases in her brown skin; and the broad outlines of her features were massive and strong.  At the end of the last century she had been a strapping girl with a fine gait, and she liked to tell how the young