Dr Hayward, who had given great satisfaction with his lecture, possessed so much urbanity and power of anecdote and song, that he soon became a general favourite alike with steerage and cabin passengers.  
One sultry forenoon Terrence O’Connor, the assistant steward, went aft and whispered to him that Ian Stuart, the sick boy, wanted very much to see him.
 
“I think he’s dying, sor,” said Terrence, in a low tone.
 
“Has the doctor seen him this morning?” asked Hayward, as he rose quickly and hurried forward.
 
“He’s seed him twice, sor,” said Terrence, “an’ both times he shook his head as he left him.”
 
It was evident that the steerage passengers felt death to be hovering over them, for they were unusually silent, and those who were in the fore-cabin at the time Hayward passed cast solemn glances at him as he descended and went to the berth of the poor boy. It was a comparatively large berth, and, being at the time on the weather side of the ship, had the port open to admit fresh air.
 
“My poor boy, do you suffer much?” said the doctor, in soothing tones, as he sat down beside Ian, and took his hand.
 
It was obvious that Ian suffered, for an expression of weariness and pain sat on his emaciated countenance, but on the appearance of Hayward the expression gave place to a glad smile on a face which was naturally refined and intellectual.
 
“Oh, thank you—thanks—” said Ian, in a low hesitating voice, for he was almost too far gone to speak.
 
“There, don’t speak, dear boy,” said the doctor, gently. “I see you have been thinking about our last conversation. Shall I read to you?”
 
“No—no. Jesus is speaking—to me. His words are crowding on me. No need for—reading when He speaks; ‘Come—unto Me—I will never—leave—’”
 
His breath suddenly failed him, and he ceased to speak, but the glad look in his large eyes showed that the flow of Divine words, though inaudible, had not ceased.
 
“Mother—father,” he said, after a short pause, “don’t cry. You’ll soon join me. Don’t let them cry, Dr Hayward. The parting won’t be for long.”
 
The Doctor made no reply, for at that moment the unmistakable signs of dissolution began to overspread the pinched features, and in a few minutes it became known throughout the ship that the “King of Terrors” had been there in the guise of an Angel of Light to pluck a little flower and transplant it into the garden of God.
 
Hayward tried to impress this fact on the bereaved parents, but they would not be comforted.
 
They were a lowly couple, who could not see far in advance of them, even in regard to things terrestrial. The last words of their child seemed to have more weight than the comfort offered by the doctor.
 
“Cheer up, David,” said the poor wife, grasping her husband’s hand, and striving to check her sobs, “Ian said truth, it won’t be long afore we jine him, the dear, dear boy.”
 
But even as she uttered the words of cheer her own heart failed her, and she again gave way to uncontrollable grief, while her husband, dazed and motionless, sat gazing at the face of the dead.
 
The funeral and its surroundings was as sad as the death. Everything was done to shroud the terrible reality. The poor remains were tenderly laid in a black deal coffin and carried to the port side of the ship by kind and loving hands. A young Wesleyan minister, who had been an unfailing comforter and help to the family all through the boy’s illness, gave a brief but very impressive address to those who stood around, and offered up an earnest prayer; but nothing could blind the mourners, especially the parents, to the harsh fact that the remains were about to be consigned to a never resting grave, and that they were going through the form rather than the reality of burial, while, as if to emphasise this fact, the back fin of a great shark was seen to cut the calm water not far astern. It followed the ship until the hollow plunge was heard, and the weighted coffin sank into the unknown depths of the sea.
 
An impression that never faded quite away was made that day on some of the more thoughtful and sensitive natures in the ship. And who can say that even amongst the thoughtless and the depraved no effect was produced! God’s power is not usually exerted in visibly effective processes. Seeds of life may have been sown by that death which shall grow and flourish in eternity. Certain it is that some of the reckless were solemnised for a time, and that the young Wesleyan was held in higher esteem throughout the ship from that day forward.
 
Some of the passengers, however, seemed very soon to forget all about the death, and relapsed into their usual frames of mind. Among these was Ned Jarring. For several days after the funeral he kept sober, and it was observed that the Wesleyan minister tried to get into conversation with him several times, but he resisted the good man’s efforts, and, when one of his chums laughingly remarked that he, “seemed to be hand and glove wi’ the parson now,” Black Ned swung angrily round, took to drinking again, and, as is usually the case in such circumstances, became worse than before.
 
Thus the little world of ship-board went on from day to day, gradually settling down into little coteries as like-minded men and women began to find each other out. Gradually, also, the various qualities of the people began to be recognised, and in a few weeks—as in the greater world—each man and woman was more or less correctly gauged according to worth. The courageous and the timid, the sensible and the vain, the weak and the strong, the self-sacrificing and the selfish, all fell naturally into their appropriate positions, subject to the moderate confusion resulting from favouritism, abused power, and other forms of sin. It was observable also that here, as elsewhere, all the coteries commented with considerable freedom on each other, and that each coterie esteemed itself unquestionably the best of the lot, although it might not absolutely say so in words. There was one exception, namely in the case of the worst or lowest coterie, which, so far from claiming to be the best, openly proclaimed itself the worst, gloried in its shame, and said that, “it didn’t care a button,” or words, even more expressive, to the same effect.
 
Ned Jarring belonged to this last class. He was probably the worst member of it.
 
One night an incident occurred which tested severely some of the qualities of every one on board. It was sometime after midnight when the dead silence of the slumbering ship was broken by perhaps the most appalling of all sounds at sea—the cry of “Fire!”
 
Smoke had been discovered somewhere near the fore-cabin. Fortunately the captain had just come up at the time to speak with the officer of the watch on deck. At the first cry he ran to the spot pointed out, telling the officer to call all hands and rig the pumps, and especially to keep order among the passengers.
 
The first man who leaped from profound slumber into wide-awake activity was Dr Hayward. Having just lain down to sleep on a locker, as he expected to be called in the night to watch beside a friend who was ill, he was already dressed, and would have been among the first at the scene of the fire, but for an interruption. At the moment he was bounding up the companion-ladder, a young man of feeble character—who would have been repudiated by the sex, had he been born a woman—sprang down the same ladder in abject terror. He went straight into the bosom of the ascending doctor, and they both went with a crash to the bottom.
 
Although somewhat stunned, Hayward was able to jump up and again make for the region of the fire, where he found most of the men and male passengers working with hose and buckets in the midst of dire confusion. Fortunately the seat of the conflagration was soon discovered; and, owing much to the cool energy of the captain and officers, the fire was put out.
 
It was about a week after this thrilling event that Mrs Massey was on the forecastle talking with Peggy Mitford. A smart breeze was blowing—just enough to fill all the sails and carry the ship swiftly on her course without causing much of a sea. The moon shone fitfully through a mass of drifting clouds, mingling its pallid light with the wondrous phosphoric sheen of the tropical seas.
 
Mrs Mitford had been regaling her companion with a long-winded and irrelevant, though well-meant, yarn about things in general and nothing in particular; and Nellie, who was the personification of considerate patience, had seated herself on the starboard rail to listen to and comment on her lucubrations.
 
“Yes, as I was sayin’, Nellie,” remarked Peggy, in her soft voice, after a brief pause, during which a variety of weak little expressions crossed her pretty face, “I never could abide the sea. It always makes me sick, an’ when it doesn’t make me sick, it makes me nervish. Not that I’m given to bein’ nervish; an’, if I was, it wouldn’t matter much, for the sea would take it out o’ me, whether or not. That’s always the way—if it’s not one thing, it’s sure to be another. Don’t you think so, Nellie? My John says ’e thinks so—though it isn’t to be thought much of what ’e says, dear man, for ’e’s got a way of sayin’ things when ’e don’t mean ’em—you understand?”
 
“Well, I don’t quite understand,” answered Mrs Massey, cutting in at this point with a laugh, “but I’m quite sure it’s better to say things when you don’t mean them, than to mean things when you don’t say them!”
 
“Perhaps you’re right, Nellie,” rejoined Mrs Mitford, with a mild nod of assent; “I’ve sometimes thought on these things when I’ve ’ad one o’ my sick ’eadaches, which prevents me from thinkin’ altogether, almost; an’, bless you, you’d wonder what strange idears comes over me at such times. Did you ever try to think things with a sick ’eadache, Nellie?”
 
With a laugh, and a bright look, Mrs Massey replied that she had never been in a position to try that curious experiment, never having had a headache of any kind in her life.
 
While she was speaking, a broad-backed wave caused the ship to roll rather heavily to starboard, and Mrs Massey, losing her balance, fell into the sea.
 
Sedate and strong-minded though she was, Nellie could not help shrieking as she went over; but the shriek given by Mrs Mitford was tenfold more piercing. It was of a nature that defies description. Its effect was to thrill the heart of every one who heard it. But Peggy did more than shriek. Springing on the rail like an antelope, she would have plunged overboard to the rescue of her friend, regardless of her own inability to swim, and of everything else, had not a seaman, who chanced to be listening to the conversation—caught her with a vice-like grip.
 
“Hold on, Peggy!” he cried.
 
But Peggy shrieked and struggled, thus preventing the poor fellow from attempting a rescue, while shouts and cries of “man overboard” rang through the ship from stem to stern, until it became known that it was a woman. Then the cries redoubled. In the midst of the hubbub the strong but calm voice of the captain was heard to give orders to lower a boat and port the helm—“hard a-port.”
 
But, alas! for poor Nellie that night if her life had depended on shouters, strugglers, shriekers, or boatmen.
 
At the moment the accident happened two men chanced to be standing on the starboard side of the ship—one on the quarter-deck, the other on the forecastle. Both men were ready of resource and prompt in action, invaluable qualities anywhere, but especially at sea! The instant the cry arose each sprang to and cut adrift a life-buoy. Each knew that the person overboard might fail to see or catch a buoy in the comparative darkness. He on the forecastle, who chanced to see Nellie fall over, at once followed her with the life-buoy in his arms. Ignorant of this act the man near the stern saw something struggling in the water as the ship flew past. Without an instant’s hesitation he also plunged into the sea with a life-buoy in his grasp.
 
The faint light failed to reveal who had thus boldly plunged to the rescue, but the act had been observed both at bow and stern, and a cheer of hope went up as the ship came up to the wind, topsails were backed, and the boat was dropped into the water.
 
Twenty minutes elapsed before there was any sign of the boat returning, during which time the ship’s bell was rung continually. It may be better imagined than described the state of poor Bob Massey, who had been asleep on a locker in the fore-cabin when the accident occurred, and who had to be forcibly prevented, at first, from jumping into the sea when he heard that it was Nellie who was overboard.
 
At last oars were heard in the distance.
 
“Stop that bell! boat ahoy!” shouted the captain.
 
“Ship aho–o–oy!” came faintly back on the breeze, while every voice was hushed and ear strained to listen, “All right! all saved!”
 
A loud “Thank the Lord!” burst from our coxswain’s heaving chest, and a wild ringing cheer leaped upwards alike from passengers and crew, while warm tears overflowed from many an eye that was more intimate with cold spray, for a noble deed and a life saved have always the effect of stirring the deepest enthusiasm of mankind.
 
A few minutes more and three dripping figures came up the gangway. First came Nellie herself; dishevelled and pale, but strong and hearty nevertheless, as might be expected of a fisher-girl and a lifeboat coxswain’s wife! She naturally fell into, or was caught up by, her husband’s arms, and was carried off to the cabin.
 
Following her came two somewhat exhausted men.
 
The cheer that greeted them was not unmingled with surprise.
 
“The best an’ the worst men i’ the ship!” gasped Joe Slag, amid laughter and hearty congratulations.
 
He was probably right, for it was the young Wesleyan minister and Ned Jarring who had effected this gallant rescue.
 
The performance of a good action has undoubtedly a tendency to elevate, as the perpetration of a bad one has to demoralise.
 
From that day forward Black Ned felt that he had acquired a certain character which might be retained or lost. Without absolutely saying that he became a better man in consequence, we do assert that he became more respectable to look at, and drank less!
 
Thus the voyage progressed until the good ship Lapwing sailed in among some of the innumerable islands of the Southern seas.