hospitality had been doubtfully enjoyed at supper, and after they had refreshed themselves with seeing the sun set and watching the many-coloured clouds he left behind him, the moon rose in the other quarter and threw her ‘silver light’ across the deck, just as duskiness was beginning to steal on.  The duskiness went on and shrouded the hills and the distant reaches of the river in soft gloom; but on board the Julia Ann, on her white sails and deck floor where the brother and sister were sitting, and on a broad pathway of water between them and the moon, her silver light threw itself with brightening and broadening power.  By and by Mr. Hildebrand’s two or three helpers disposed of themselves below deck, and nobody was left but Mr. Hildebrand himself at the helm.

“Now we can sing!” exclaimed Winnie, when one or two turns of her head had made her sure of this; and to Winthrop’s surprise she struck up the very words part of which had been in his own remembrance.

“’Jerusalem! my happy home —­
“’Name ever dear to me —­
“’When shall my labours have an end,
“’ In joy and peace in thee!"’

Winnie’s voice was as sweet and clear as a bird’s, if weakness left it not much stronger; that of her brother was deep, mellow, and exceeding fine; it was no wonder that the skipper turned his head and forgot his tiller to catch the fulness of every note.  When the last had sounded, there was nothing to be heard but the rippling of water under the sloop’s prow; the sails were steady and full, the moonlight not more noiseless; the wind swept on with them softly, just giving a silent breath to their cheeks; the skipper held his tiller with a moveless hand.

“What next, Winnie?” her brother whispered.  The soft gurgle of the water had been heard for several minutes.

“How fond Karen is of that hymn,” said Winifred.  “Governor, do you think I shall live long in this world?”

She was leaning, half lying, upon Winthrop, with his arm round her.  Her voice had put the question in precisely the same tone that it had given the remark.

“Why do you ask me that, Winnie?”

“Because —­ sometimes I think I sha’n’t, —­ and I want to know what you think.”

“You will live, I am sure, dear Winnie, till God has done for you all he means to do; —­ till he has fitted his child for heaven; —­ and then he will take her.”

“I know that,” said Winifred with a grateful half look up at him; —­ “but I mean —­ you know I am not well quite, and weak, and I don’t think I get any better; —­ don’t you think that it won’t take a very great while, very likely?”

“How would you feel, Winnie, if you thought that was so?”

“I do think it sometimes —­ pretty often,” —­ said Winnie, “and it don’t make me feel sorry, Governor.”

“You think heaven is better than earth.”

“Yes, —­and then —­ that’s one good thing of my sickness —­ it don’t seem as if I ever could do much if I lived, so it matters the less.”