clapped his hands as the water came in from the lock, and 

 cried out, ' Higher and higher — oh, granny, we are going up 

 to Heaven ! ' Bless the dear cliild, his heart was always 

 a-going there." And so from tlie emigrants our talli went 

 wandering, as was its way, much as tlie water does, here, 

 there, and everywhere. 



The Queenstown letter gave us a pleasant foretaste of the 

 still Ijctter letter we were expecting ; it served to make us on 

 terras of acquaintance with the ship, and with the water. 

 "Being on the water" was being on the water to the good 

 folks of Milton ; and whether it were the Channel, the broad 

 Atlantic, or Moreton Bay, did not so much signify. 



At last the long-CMpoeted letter came. I do not know why, 

 lint I held it in my hand many miiuites before I opened it. 

 I turned it round ; I read the post-mark " Brisbane," and the 

 words " Thank God ! " escaped my lips, for I felt in some 

 sort responsible for the safety of these my friends. When at 

 last I opened the letter, there fell out two sheets of an ac- 

 count-book, much soiled and blotted. "That's fromS.arah," 

 I thought ; for I had given her a little book, and she had 

 promised to write down every now and then her impressions 

 of the sea, for Sarah was a good scholar, a much better one 

 than her husband. The letter was from John. I give it in 

 its own sad, simple words— words that made my heart die 

 within me, and yet in the midst of my anguish comforted me. 

 The letter was as follow s : — 



" Honoured Miss — The rest A\ill tell you of our voyage, 

 and of the safe an-ival of the ' Southern Cross ' at Brisbane'; 

 I have no heart to write of anything. I liave lost my wife. 

 Oh, Miss Mary, wh.at shall I do ? my dear wife and tlic child 

 are both taken from me. We did very well till baby caught 

 the measles ; and my wife nursed him night and day till he 

 died, just as we were entering Moreton Bay, and I thought 

 we were safe ; and then ray wife, who had lieen feeling sadly 

 for many days, took worse, and in two days she was gone. 

 The captain put us ashore at a little island, and the doctor 

 came with me, and we maile her a grave and buried her 

 beneath the only tree on the island, just in sight of shore. 

 All she said when she w.as going was, " Don't fret, John ; I 

 am going home, to Charlie's home j" and I think she is safe 

 there, Jliss Mary, for she was a changed woman since Charlie 

 died, and set me such a good light as I'm not like to forget 

 in this world — no, never ; and all I hope is, that God will be 

 good to rae, and help me to follow her and little Charlie." 



And tliat was all. Other letters there were from other emi- 

 grants, all full of life, and hope, and happiness ; but in these 

 few lines I read the utter destruction of that home, to build 

 np which John Ingram had left his native land. 



From John's letter I turned with streaming eyes to the 

 poor soiled manuscript, written in the hand of her who laid 

 in her lonely grave by that far-off sea. It was evidently the 

 beginning of a Journal such as I had begged her to keep. 

 Why so little was written, or why it ended so al>ru]itly, I 

 never knew. Wliy it was written at all, and when written, 

 why it found its way to mv hands, seemed but as threads of 

 the same woof of love that" had sheltered mo beneath its folds 

 all my life, giving me in the midst of sharpest sorrow a 

 glim|5se of thankful joy. The manuscript ran thus :— 



" On board the ' Southern Cross.' 



" I am at sci. The latitude and longitude I cannot tell ; 

 but my heart counts the distance from ' home' by trouliled 

 days of hidden yearning and nights of watchfulness. It is 

 not that I am, as many of ray companions are, troubled by 

 the water ; but I am filled by an overwhelming sense of the 

 presence of God ; by a vague feeling that I cannot conquer 

 or understand, that the swift passage of the vessel over the 

 waters is hurrving me on to eternity. This feeling follows 

 me day and night! Thank God, of His deep love, it does not 

 frighten me; but it gives me a strange yearning over my 

 little ones ! it adds a deeper tenderness to my love for my 

 husband. 



" In the beautiful days when the sunshine is gleammg over 

 the white-capped waves, and the fresh breeze bears the vessel 

 merrily along, and I hear the glad voices of happy children 

 plaving around me on the deck, I feel ' He is coming.' 

 When I lie awake in the night, and hear the storm rattling 

 in canviis and mast, I clasp my b.aby to my heart and feel 

 ' He is come.' I know not how I am so altered, but ever 

 since my dear child went to Paradise, I have felt a quiet 

 trust and confidence in my heart, that raving wind and roar- 

 ing w.ave cannot touch or rob me of ; and I can lie still, 

 w.otching and listening for the Approach, that seems so near 

 and yet so Ungering." 



On the evening of the day upon which I received John 

 Ingram's letter — a day spent" in tears of sympathy with my 

 poor friends— I went to visit Charlie's nr.ave. For the first time 

 since he died, I took no flowers. This new sharp grief, added to 

 the lilighting influence of the misery and starvation .around me, 

 seemed to have thrown a shade of sadness over even the dear 

 flowers. I wanted comfort deeper than they could give. 



I sat down on the little mound, scarcely thinking, scarcely 

 dreaming. I remember spelling over and over again the 

 blessed promise that the pure in heart should see God. I 

 remember a thankful sense of Charlie's freedom from temp- 

 tation, and sin, and then 



