Story of Chester Lawrence

CHAPTER XX.

In bliss­ful ig­no­rance of any dan­ger, the pas­sen­gers and most of the crew went the dai­ly round of plea­sure or du­ty. The games on deck, the smok­ing and card-​play­ing in the gen­tle­men's room, the sleep­ing and the eat­ing all went on un­in­ter­rupt­ed. Cap­tain Brown, though qui­eter than usu­al, was as pleas­ant and thought­ful as ev­er. The sea was smooth, the weath­er fine, and the ship plowed on her course with no vis­ible in­di­ca­tion that she was slow­ly be­ing crip­pled.

Lucy had for her use, one of the largest and best ven­ti­lat­ed rooms in the ship. It was so pleas­ant there, that she spent much of her time in its seclu­sive­ness. It is need­less to state that Chester shared that com­fort and seclu­sion. Read­ing, talk­ing, build­ing cas­tles which reached in­to the heav­ens, these two basked in the warm light of a per­fect love. Af­ter a lit­tle buf­fet­ing about in world­ly storms, two hearts had come to rest; and how pen­etrat­ing­ly sweet was that serene peace of soul. In him she saw her high­est ide­als re­al­ized, her fond­est hopes and dreams come true. In her he found the com­pos­ite per­fect­ness of wom­an. All his vi­sions from ear­ly youth to the present ma­te­ri­al­ized in the sweet face, gen­tle spir­it and pure soul of Lucy Strong!

Chester, the day af­ter Cap­tain Brown had told him about the con­di­tion of the ship, found Lucy in her room. She was not well, the fa­ther had said, so Chester sought her out. She was re­clin­ing on the couch. His heart, bur­dened with what he knew melt­ed to­wards the girl. He drew a stool up to her, and kissed his good-​morn­ing.

“Not so well to­day?” he asked.

“No; my heart has been trou­bling me all night; but I'm bet­ter now.”

“Now, see here, my girl, I'm the one that ought to be ill.”

“How's that?” she smiled at him.

“Have we not ex­changed hearts?”

“Oh, I see. Yes; but the strength on­ly went with mine. The weak­ness I re­tained. It would not have been fair oth­er­wise.”

She sat up and pushed back her hair. He seat­ed him­self near her and drew her in his arm. He held her close.

“Some things,” said he, “we can not give, much as we would like. Some bur­dens we must car­ry our­selves.”

“Which I take it, is a very wise pro­vi­sion,” she added.

There was si­lence af­ter that. It was not easy for ei­ther of them to talk, each be­ing con­strained with his own crowd­ed thoughts. Chester lis­tened to the rhyth­mic beat of the ma­chin­ery, and won­dered vague­ly how long it would con­tin­ue thus, and what would hap­pen if it had to stop.

“Chester,” said Lucy at last, “what if I should die?” She clung to him as she said it.

“But, my dear, you're not go­ing to die. You're go­ing to get com­plete­ly well again--You're go­ing to stay with me, you know.”

“That's the worst, when I think of it--the thought of sep­arat­ing from you--O Chester, I can't do that--All my life I've wait­ed and watched for you, and now to leave you, to lose you again--and we've been to­geth­er such a short time! I can't bear to think of it.” The tears welled in her eyes.

"Then, my sweet­heart mustn't think of it. We are go­ing to be to­geth­er, we two. 'Whith­er thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge ... where thou di­est will I die, and there will I be buried!' quot­ed the young man, know­ing not the prophet­ic im­port of his words. She leaned on his shoul­der, and he stroked the hair from her fore­head.

“Did you have a talk with Cap­tain Brown?” she asked. “Did you an­swer his ques­tions?”

Chester start­ed, then un­der­stood. “Oh, yes,” he replied. “Yes­ter­day on the bridge we talked for an hour. He asked me all man­ner of ques­tions, and I think I sat­is­fied him. He had heard of Mor­monism,' of course, but nev­er of its mes­sage of sal­va­tion. I be­lieve he's con­vert­ed al­ready.”

“I'm so glad, for he is such a nice man. Chester, I wish your fa­ther were more sus­cep­ti­ble to the gospel. I can't un­der­stand him. He nev­er op­pos­es, nor does he now find fault with me; but as for him­self--well, he says he's go­ing back to the pul­pit.”

“I am just as sor­ry as you, on that score; but we can but do our best, and let the Lord take care of the rest.”

Now when their thoughts ranged from self to oth­ers, Lucy felt so much bet­ter that she de­clared she was ready for the deck. So lean­ing on Chester's arm, they care­ful­ly climbed the stairs, and came to the open. There was a breeze, and a bank of clouds hung low to wind­ward. Chester ad­just­ed Lucy's wrap close­ly as they paced the deck slow­ly. The clouds lift­ed in­to the sky, shut­ting out the sun. On the hori­zon, wink­ings of light­ning flashed. Ev­ident­ly, a storm was com­ing.

Cap­tain Brown was qui­et at the lun­cheon ta­ble. Chester not­ed it, and af­ter­wards, fol­lowed the cap­tain to the bridge.

“How goes it?” asked Chester.

“Not well,” was the re­ply. “Do you see that list to lar­board.”

“I don't un­der­stand.”

With­out point­ing, which ac­tion oth­ers might see, the cap­tain ex­plained that the ship tilt­ed to one side, al­so that there was a slight “set­tling by the head,” that is, the ship was deep­er in the wa­ter for­ward than at any oth­er part. Chester no­ticed it now, and asked what it meant.

“It means,” ex­plained the cap­tain, “that we are slow­ly set­tling--sink­ing, in plain words. The pumps can not man­age the wa­ter com­ing in­to the hold. There is al­so some trou­ble with the car­go, which caus­es the list or lean­ing to one side. From now on, I shall be on the look­out for as­sis­tance, which I think, will come in am­ple time--Now tell me more about this new prophet, Joseph Smith.”

For an hour they con­versed. Then the cap­tain had to go be­low again, and Chester went in search of Lucy. A num­ber of the pas­sen­gers were stand­ing near the lar­board rail. They no­ticed the slope of the deck, but did not re­al­ize its mean­ing, and Chester did not en­light­en them. A pe­cu­liar heart-​sink­ing feel­ing per­sist­ed with him, which the com­ing storm did not al­le­vi­ate.

The cap­tain was not in his place at din­ner, which was all the more no­tice­able, be­cause it was the first time he had been ab­sent. Some of the pas­sen­gers were be­gin­ning to feel the ef­fects of the high­er seas, and they did not eat much. Very few went back to the deck from the ta­ble. Lucy and the min­is­ter were among those who went to bed, but Chester, clad in wa­ter proofs was eas­ier on deck.

The wind was blow­ing hard, in­creas­ing in time to quite a gale. The waves broke over the ship's prow, slush­ing the for­ward deck and driv­ing all who were out ei­ther back or to an up­per deck. Chester kept away from Cap­tain Brown on the bridge, where he no doubt would re­main through­out the night.

Dark­ness came on thick and black. The wind howled hideous­ly around smoke-​stack and rig­ging. The rain came in storms, then ceased on­ly to gath­er more strength for the next squall. How well the ship was stand­ing the rough weath­er, Chester did not know, and cer­tain­ly the oth­er pas­sen­gers had no fears, as most of them were asleep. Chester went down the com­pan­ion-​way, glanced in­to the va­cant sa­loon and hall­ways, and paused at Lucy's door All was qui­et, so she was no doubt asleep. His fa­ther was al­so rest­ing eas­ily. He went on deck again.

As he mount­ed the steps to the tip­per deck, he saw a bril­liant light shine from the bridge. It flashed for an in­stant, flood­ing the ship with light, then went out. “The cap­tain is sig­nalling,” thought Chester. In five min­utes the light flashed again, thus at reg­ular in­ter­vals. The few pas­sen­gers who saw this, be­com­ing alarmed, rushed to the bridge with anx­ious ques­tions. The cap­tain met them at the foot of the stairs.

“My friends,” he said in won­der­ful­ly calm tones “there is no oc­ca­sion for alarm. The weath­er is very thick, and as we are in the path of steam­ers, these lights are set off as a warn­ing.” This ex­pla­na­tion, as Chester knew, was not all the truth, but the cap­tain did not want a pan­ic so ear­ly in the trou­ble. The pas­sen­gers seemed sat­is­fied, but they lin­gered for some time watch­ing the lights and the re­mark­able ef­fects they had on the ship and the heav­ing sea. The cap­tain touched Chester who was still stand­ing near the steps.

“You go to bed and get some rest,” he said. “You may need all your strength lat­er. There is no dan­ger tonight. Go to bed.”

Chester took the cap­tain's ad­vice. He went to bed, but it was not easy to go to sleep, so he did not do this un­til well to­wards morn­ing.

The storm was still on next morn­ing when Chester awoke. He dressed hur­ried­ly, lis­tened again at Lucy's and his fa­ther's doors, but hear­ing noth­ing went on deck. The day was well ad­vanced. The wind seemed not so strong as the night be­fore, and the waves were not so high. How­ev­er, the sea was rough enough to add to the dan­ger of a sink­ing ship. Chester no­ticed the “list to lar­board,” and the “set­tling at the head,” and found both of these dan­ger­ous con­di­tions worse. The most care­less ob­serv­er would not now fail to see that some­thing was the mat­ter. And, in fact, as the pas­sen­gers came on deck that morn­ing, most of them late and look­ing bad from threat­ened at­tacks of sea-​sick­ness, they im­me­di­ate­ly re­marked on the slant­ing deck. Anx­ious en­quiries from of­fi­cers and sea­men brought no sat­is­fac­to­ry re­ply. Had there been a large num­ber of pas­sen­gers, there would like­ly have been an un­pleas­ant pan­ic that morn­ing.

The break­fast was late, and very few of the pas­sen­gers were there to par­take of it. Cap­tain Brown was in his place, greet­ing the few who slipped care­ful­ly in­to their seats. As the meal pro­gressed and not over half of the usu­al com­pa­ny put in an ap­pear­ance, the cap­tain con­sult­ed with the sec­ond of­fi­cer and the stew­ard. Then at the close of the meal, the cap­tain arose and said:

“My friends, I wish you to re­main un­til we can get all who are able to join us here. I have some­thing to say which I want all of you to hear. So please re­main seat­ed. The stew­ard will see that no one leaves the room.”

One by one the ab­sent pas­sen­gers were brought in. Thomas Strong was among them, but not Lucy, for which Chester was thank­ful. The stew­ard re­port­ed that all who were able were present, and then amid a tense si­lence, em­pha­sized on­ly by the creak­ing of the ship and the sub­dued noise of the sea with­out, the cap­tain said:

“I am sor­ry to have to tell you that the ship is in a sink­ing con­di­tion. There is a leak which we have been un­able to stop. Two of our boil­ers are al­ready use­less and it is on­ly a mat­ter of time when the wa­ter will reach the oth­ers. I have not said any­thing about this un­til now, for I have been hop­ing to meet with some ves­sel that could take us off. So far, none has ap­peared. How­ev­er, we are in the steam­er zone, and we have many chances yet. To­day some­time or tonight we must take to the boats, and what I want to im­press up­on you es­pe­cial­ly is that you, all of you, must con­trol your­selves. Do not give way to ex­cite­ment or fear which might hin­der you from do­ing what is best. I tell you plain­ly, that the worst we have to fear on that score is the crew. They are al­ready near to mutiny. The first of­fi­cer and oth­ers are guard­ing their ex­its and keep­ing the stok­ers at their posts. They are a rough lot of men, and it will not do to let them get be­yond our con­trol. I shall, there­fore, ask the help of ev­ery man present. When it comes to launch­ing the boats, it must be done in or­der. There are boats enough, but there must not be any crowd­ing. With the present rough wa­ter it will be dif­fi­cult to get the boats off. It is nec­es­sary, there­fore, that the great­est care be tak­en. Now, then, that is all. Go about qui­et­ly. Each man and wom­an get a life belt ready, but you need not put them on un­til you are told. The stew­ard will give the or­der.”

He ceased, turned, and hur­ried up the com­pan­ion­way. There was si­lence for a mo­ment, then a wom­an screamed, which sig­naled a gen­er­al up­roar of cries and talk. Out of the con­fu­sion came qui­et, as­sur­ing com­mands, and in time the lit­tle com­pa­ny had scat­tered. Chester and his fa­ther went out to­geth­er, along the hall­way to Lucy's room. They looked mute­ly at each oth­er, not know­ing what best to say.

When they stopped at Lucy's door, Chester asked of his fa­ther if she was up.

“Yes,” he replied; “but she is not well. How shall we tell her the evil news?”

“We must man­age it some­how, for she must know--poor lit­tle girl!”

Be­tween them, they man­aged to tell Lucy of the sit­ua­tion they were in. Dur­ing the telling, she looked at one and then at the oth­er in a dazed way, as if she could not be­lieve there were any ac­tu­al dan­ger. They re­peat­ed to her the as­sur­ances the cap­tain had giv­en.

“Can we go on deck?” asked Lucy at last. “I want to get in­to the air where the sky is above me.”

They found a pro­tect­ed cor­ner in the smok­ing-​room where Lucy was con­tent to sit and look out of the open door to see what was go­ing on about the deck. Of­fi­cers were in­spect­ing the boats to see that all were ready in case of need. The work of the crew and the move­ments of the pas­sen­gers were ac­com­pa­nied by a cer­tain ner­vous­ness. That the ship was slow­ly set­tling could plain­ly be seen by all on board.

To­wards noon, the for­ward hatch was opened, and soon there was a rat­tle of chains and clang of ma­chin­ery. Then up from the hold come bales, box­es, and bar­rels which were un­cer­emo­ni­ous­ly dropped in­to the sea. The car­go must go. No help had yet been sight­ed, and if they were to re­main afloat much longer, the ship would have to be light­ened. “What a pity to waste so much,” said some, for­get­ting their own per­il for the mo­ment; but hu­man life is worth more than ships or car­gos.

Very few cared to re­spond to the call for lun­cheon which the stew­ards brave­ly kept up. The wom­en who were too fright­ened to go be­low were served on deck, be­ing urged to eat by so­lic­itous friends.

All af­ter­noon the un­load­ing went on. The ship moved slow­ly leav­ing a train of float­ing mer­chan­dise in its wake. On the bridge the cap­tain or one of the of­fi­cers paced back and forth with glass in hand ea­ger to catch the call of the man in the crow's nest if he should catch sight of oth­er ves­sels. But none were seen. The af­ter­noon closed; dark­ness came on. Then the light burned again from the bridge and the fog-​horn added its din to the drea­ri­ness.

Lucy kept to her po­si­tion near the open deck. She would not go be­low, so wraps and pil­lows were brought her and she was made as com­fort­able as pos­si­ble. Chester re­mained with her most of the time, the fa­ther came and went in ner­vous un­cer­tain­ty. Cap­tain Brown stopped long enough to tell Chester that since most of the car­go was over­board, they would float a lit­tle longer, but they were to be ready at any time now to leave the ship. The boats were pro­vi­sioned, it was ex­plained, and the pas­sen­gers would be al­lowed to take with them on­ly what could be car­ried in a small bun­dle. Very like­ly, they would not need to desert the ship be­fore morn­ing, so they had bet­ter rest.

But there was nei­ther rest nor sleep that night. Chester tucked his fa­ther in­to a seat, placed a pil­low for his head, then, see­ing that Lucy was com­fort­able, sat down by her. She lift­ed the cov­er from her shoul­ders, and ex­tend­ed it to his. It dropped to his lap al­so, so thus they sat in the dim glow of the elec­tric light. Life belts were with­in easy reach.

It was well past mid­night when the lights went out. Then the beat, beat of the en­gines grew less, be­came fainter, and then like a great heart, ceased. The ship was dead, and life­less it must float at the mer­cy of wind and wave. Then from be­low came the cries of men, and there were hur­ried steps and sharp com­mands on deck. Chester stepped out to see what it was. Cap­tain Brown and the first of­fi­cer stood by the en­trance to the boil­er rooms with gleam­ing re­volvers in their hands, hold­ing back an ex­cit­ed crowd of stok­ers.

“Back, ev­ery one of you!” shout­ed the cap­tain. “I shall kill the first man who comes out un­til he is giv­en per­mis­sion.”

The mass of half-​naked, grimy men slunk back with curs­es and protes­ta­tions. “The ship is sink­ing,” they cried, “let us get out.”

“Steady there now.” com­mand­ed Cap­tain Brown. “There is plen­ty of time. We shall let you out, but it must be done or­der­ly. One at a time now, and go get your clothes. Then stand by, ready for or­ders from the en­gi­neer. Do you agree?”

“Yes, yes.” They filed out one and two at a time, dis­ap­pear­ing in the dark­ness. Lanterns, pre­pared for this emer­gen­cy, flashed here and there. Chester ob­tained one and placed it on the ta­ble of the smok­ing room.

Present­ly the stew­ards could be heard run­ning about the ship say­ing: “Ready for the boats, ready for the boats--Ev­ery­body on the boat deck!” The fright­ened pas­sen­gers crowd­ed up the steps in the half-​dark­ness, the gleam of lanterns show­ing the way. Men were clear­ing the davits, and present­ly the first boat was ready to be filled.

Cap­tain Brown was in com­mand. He now looked out in­to the night, then down to the rough sea, hes­itat­ing for a mo­ment whether or not the time had come. He did not wish to set these men and wom­en afloat in small boats on such a sea if he could pos­si­bly help it; but a set­tling move­ment of the ship, which per­haps he on­ly felt, de­cid­ed him. He de­tailed six sailors to the boat that was ready, then said:

“The wom­en first--no crowd­ing, please--stand back you!”--this to a man whom pan­ic had seized and who was crowd­ing for­ward.

Sharp, clear, came the or­ders, and ev­ery­one un­der­stood. Some hus­bands were per­mit­ted to go with their hys­ter­ical wives. Present­ly, “That will do,” or­dered the cap­tain. “There are plen­ty of boats, and there need be no over­load­ing. Low­er away.”

The first boat went down and was safe­ly float­ed and rowed away from the sink­ing ship. The sailors were busy with the sec­ond boat. Cap­tain Brown caught sight of Chester. “Where is Mr. Strong and Lucy. This is your boat. Bring them along.”

“When do you go, Cap­tain?”

“I? On the last boat. Hur­ry them along, my boy.”

Just as Chester turned, there came from the oth­er side of the ship the noise of shout­ing, rush­ing men. The com­mands of of­fi­cers were drowned in the con­fu­sion. The fran­tic stok­ers had got be­yond the con­trol of the of­fi­cer, and they rushed for the boats. Davits creaked, as the boats were swung out. The crazed men pushed pell mell in­to them. One boat was low­ered when on­ly half full, and by the time Cap­tain Brown reached the scene, the sec­ond boat was full, ready to be loos­ened.

“Hold,” he com­mand­ed, as he held aloft his lantern and his re­volver point­ed di­rect­ly at the man who held one of the ropes.

“Out of there, ev­ery one of you--out I say--you first,” to a man just climb­ing in.

The stok­ers were not sailors--the riff-​raff of many ports they were; and now with them it was ev­ery man for him­self. This feel­ing with­out prop­er knowl­edge worked their un­do­ing. The ropes were re­leased, one be­fore the oth­er, and the load­ed boat bumped down the side of the ves­sel, one end drop­ping be­fore the oth­er, spilling the scream­ing, curs­ing men in­to the wa­ter. Down the boat slid un­til one end touched the waves, the rope ends fly­ing loose­ly so that they could not be reached by those on the deck. A wave hit the boat as it hung and swamped it.

“My God,” ex­claimed the cap­tain, “two of our boats are lost. There is on­ly one more left.”

Chester Lawrence stood still and watched by the lantern's light what was go­ing on. He pressed for­ward in time to hear Cap­tain Brown's re­mark about the boats. Then to­geth­er they crossed to the oth­er side where that last boat hung ready to be filled. And there was need for hur­ry now. Slow­ly, but sure­ly, the ship was sink­ing, and any mo­ment might bring the fi­nal plunge.

“Load the boat,” shout­ed the Cap­tain, “wom­en first.” The half dozen wom­en found places.

“Where's Lucy?” he en­quired, look­ing around for Chester who had dis­ap­peared. Lucy was not in the boat. The Cap­tain was sure she had not got­ten away with the first boat. Chester would bring her.

“Now, fill in,” was the or­der. “Mr. Strong, where are you? Is Mr. Strong here?” But he was not to be found.

One by one the few re­main­ing pas­sen­gers took their places, then the crew.

“Is there room for more?” asked the Cap­tain of the of­fi­cer in the boat.

“I fear not, sir,” came the re­ply.

“Some of the men get un­der the seats,” or­dered the Cap­tain. “Now, then in with you men. Don't go yet. There is yet a wom­an aboard. Hold fast there, of­fi­cer, un­til I find her.” He rushed down the stairs with his lantern, call­ing for Chester. “Where are you--for God's sake come quick!”

“Here I am sir,” replied Chester as he came near­ly car­ry­ing his fa­ther.

“Where is Lucy?”

“Lucy is not com­ing, sir. She does not need to--she has gone al­ready--she--”

“What? What is it? We need to hur­ry, my boy!”

“Lucy is dead!”

“Dead!--Bring Mr. Strong along. The boat is wait­ing.”

The boat hung by its davits, ready for low­er­ing.

“We are full,” said the of­fi­cer, “and the deck is cleared. There is need for hur­ry, sir.”

“There is,” replied Cap­tain Brown. “Make room for two more.”

“We can't do it sir--not in this sea--we are over­crowd­ed now.”

“You must--close up, lie down, make room.”

One of the of­fi­cers of­fered to get out, then an­oth­er did the same, but the cap­tain would not hear. “No,” he said, “you men have fam­ilies.”

Still the boat hung there in the dark­ness. What could be done? The waves rolled be­neath, the wind moaned in the rig­ging.

“We might risk one more, sir,” came from the boat.

The cap­tain looked at Chester, big, strong, full of youth, and then at the slen­der, gray-​haired man. What a pity, and yet he knew the younger man would have to re­main. That is the law of the sea.

“I'll not go,” said the fa­ther. “You go, Chester.”

“No, no; we'll man­age some­how; but you must take the chance. Here, help him in.”

Cap­tain Brown stood by with lift­ed lantern. He did not dic­tate which of the two should go. He had no need of that. He saw Chester lift the old man in his arms, hold him for an in­stant close to him, kiss him and mur­mur, “Good­by fa­ther, and God bless and pre­serve you”--then he hand­ed him over to out­stretched hands in the boat.

Cap­tain Brown and Chester Lawrence stood by the rail­ing and watched the boat low­ered. Then when they knew it was safe­ly rid­ing the waves, they turned to each oth­er.

“Where is your life-​belt?” asked the Cap­tain. “Get it, and put it on.”

“Is there a chance?”

“There is al­ways a chance. Come. We shall go to­geth­er, one way or an­oth­er--the way God wills.”

They walked along the slant­ing deck down to where Lucy lay on the couch in the smok­ing room. Chester did not no­tice the life-​belt on the ta­ble, but he lift­ed a lantern to Lucy's face, kneeled by it, and kissed it ten­der­ly. “Lucy,” he said, “my sweet­heart, where are you? Don't you want me to come too?” He stroked the still face, and smoothed back the hair as he was wont. “Aren't you afraid in that new world to which you have gone--aren't you as lone­some as--I am? O Lucy, Lucy!”

“Come put on this belt,” said the cap­tain, touch­ing him on the shoul­der.

“I'm com­ing with you, Lucy,” con­tin­ued the young man. “Noth­ing shall part us--as I have told you--we two,--O, my God, what can I do?”

The cap­tain led Chester away from the dead, out to the open deck, and buck­led around him a life-​belt. “Wait here” said the of­fi­cer. “There is a chance--I'm go­ing to see. I'll be back in a minute.”

Chester was alone, and in those few min­utes the won­der­ful panora­ma of life passed be­fore him. He lived in pe­ri­ods, each pe­ri­od end­ing with Lucy Strong. His boy­hood, and his awak­en­ing to the world about him--then Lucy; his school­days, with boys and girls--out from them came Lucy; his ear­ly man­hood, his form­ing ide­als--com­plet­ed in Lucy; his ex­pe­ri­ences in the West, and at Piney Ridge Cot­tage, and then came, not Ju­lia, but Lucy; then the gospel with its new light and as­sur­ance of sal­va­tion; and this cou­pled with Lucy, her faith and love, burned as a sweet in­cense in the soul of Chester Lawrence. Fear left him now. He heard sounds as if they were songs from dis­tant an­gel-​choirs. Words of com­fort and strength were whis­pered to his heart: “Though I walk through the val­ley of the shad­ow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art near me; thy rod and thy staff they com­fort me....” Eter­ni­ty! Why, an im­mor­tal soul is al­ways in eter­ni­ty; and God is al­ways at hand in life or in death.... Death! what is it but the pass­ing to the oth­er side of a cur­tain, where our loved ones are wait­ing to meet and greet us!

Chester stepped back to Lucy. It was dark where she lay, but he passed his hand over her form to her face, touch­ing ten­der­ly her cheek and closed eyes. The flesh was not yet cold, but he felt that the soul whom he had come to know as Lucy Strong was not there.

Cap­tain Brown called through the dark­ness. Chester groped in­to the open again. Was that the cap­tain's fig­ure on the bridge, loom­ing black against the faint light in the east­ern sky? If it was, Chester was in no con­di­tion to know, for just then there came a great sink­ing. A roar of wa­ters sound­ed in his ears, there was a strug­gle, a mo­ment of agony, and then the dark­ness of obliv­ion.

When he awoke again, he had passed over the storm-​whipped bar in­to still wa­ters. There Lucy met him, and to­geth­er they sailed, guid­ed by the unerring Light of God in­to the Har­bor of Eter­nal Peace and Rest.