a day of calm followed by a night of storm.

a fine-toned manly voice was heard, as the boat approached the mission smack, singing one of the popular hymns which are now pretty well-known throughout the fishing fleets.

“no mistaking that voice,” said david bright turning an amused look on billy; “singin’ peter won’t knock off till he’s under the sod or under the sea.”

“then he’ll never knock off at all,” returned billy, “for luke there has bin tellin’ me that we only begin to sing rightly a song of praise that will never end when we git into the next world.”

“that depends, lad, on whether we goes up or down.”

“well, i s’pose it does. but tell me, daddy, ain’t the hand very bad? i’m so awful sorry, you know.”

“it might ha’ bin worse, billy, but don’t you take on so, my boy. we’ll be all right an’ ship-shape when we gets it spliced or fixed up somehow, on board the mission-ship.”

the hand was not however, so easily fixed up as david bright seemed to expect.

“come down an’ let’s have a look at it, david,” said the skipper, when the vessel’s deck was gained.

by that time singing peter had stopped his tune, or, rather, he had changed it into a note of earnest sympathy, for he was a very tender-hearted man, and on terms of warm friendship with the master of the evening star.

“it’s a bad cut,” said peter, when the gaping gash in the poor man’s palm was laid bare, and the blood began to flow afresh. “we’ll have to try a little o’ the surgeon’s business here. you can take a stitch in human flesh i daresay, skipper? if you can’t, i’ll try.”

the mission skipper was, however, equal to the occasion. he sponged the wound clean; put a couple of stitches in it with sailor-like neatness—whether with surgeon-like exactness we cannot tell—drew the edges of the wound still more closely together by means of strips of sticking plaster; applied lint and bandages, and, finally, did up our skipper’s fist in a manner that seemed quite artistic to the observant men around him.

“a regular boxin’-glove,” exclaimed david, hitting the operator a gentle tap on the nose with it.

“thank ’ee, friend,” said the amateur surgeon, as he proceeded to re-stow his materials in the medicine chest; “you know that the fishermen’s mission never asks a rap for its services, but neither does it expect to receive a rap without asking. come, david, you mustn’t flourish it about like that. we all know you’re a plucky fellow, but it’ll never splice properly if you go on so.”

“hold on, mr missionary!” cried gunter, as the lid of the chest was being closed, “don’t shut up yet. i wants some o’ your doctor’s stuff.”

“all right my hearty! what do you want?”

“he wants a pair o’ eye-glasses,” cried billy, whose heart was comforted, and whose spirits were raised by the success of the operation on his father’s hand; “you see he’s so short-sighted that he can’t see no good in nobody but his-self.”

“shut up, you young catfish! see here,” said gunter, stretching out his wrists, which were red and much swollen.

“oh! i can give you something for that;” so saying the skipper supplied the fisherman with a little ointment, and then, going to a cupboard, produced a pair of worsted cuffs. “you rub ’em well with that first,” he said, “an’ then wear the cuffs.”

“he’ll want more cuffs than that,” said billy.

“i think not my boy,” said the skipper, with a benignant look, as he stooped to lock the chest. “when these are worn-out he can have more.”

“well, if you’d take my advice,” returned billy, “you’d give him another pair. a cuff on each side of his head would do him a world of good.”

gunter turned sharply to make a grasp at his young tormentor, but the lad had taken care to have the cabin table between them, and at once sprang laughing up the companion.

“he’s a smart boy, that,” remarked the mission skipper.

“rather too smart,” growled gunter, as he pocketed his salve and cuffs, and went on deck.

“smart enough!” remarked david bright with a low chuckle of satisfaction.

“come now,” said the missionary, “you’ll stop and have some coffee or cocoa with us. you can’t work wi’ that hand, you know. besides, there’ll be no fishin’ till this calm’s over. so we mean to have a little meetin’ in the afternoon. we’re in luck too, just now,” he added in a lower voice, “for we’ve got a real parson aboard. that’s him talkin’ to my mate. he’s here on a visit—partly for his health, i believe—a regular clergyman of the church of england and a splendid preacher, let me tell you. you’ll stop, now, won’t you?”

david bright’s countenance grew sad. the memory of his recent failure and fall came over him.

“what’s the use o’ me attendin’ your meetin’s?” he said, almost angrily; “my soul’s past recovery, for i don’t believe in your prayin’ an’ psalm-singin’.”

“you trusted me freely wi’ your hand, david, though i’m no surgeon. why won’t you trust me a little wi’ your soul, though i’m no parson—especially as it seems to be in a very bad way by your own account? have a talk wi’ the parson. he’s got such a way with him that he’s sure to do you good.”

it was not so much the words thus spoken as the grave, kind, sensible tones and looks which accompanied them, that won the despairing fisherman.

“well, i’ll stop,” he said, with a short laugh; “the cocoa may do me good, even though the meetin’ don’t.”

“now you’re becoming soft and unmanly—a regular old wife,” whispered the demon, who had watched him anxiously throughout the whole morning.

“the boat’s alongside, father,” billy called out, at that moment down the open skylight.

“that’s right,” replied the father in a strong hearty voice. “you go aboard wi’ the rest, my boy, an’ come back in the arternoon when you see ’em hoist the mission-flag. i’m goin’ to stop aboard, an we’ll all attend the meetin’ together. an’ look you, billy, fetch my noo testament with ’ee—the one your mother gave me.”

“praise the lord for these words!” said the mission skipper.

he did not say it very loud, for he was not by nature a demonstrative man; neither did he whisper it, for he was not ashamed to thank his god for mercies received.

at the same moment the demon fled away for that time—according to the true word, “resist the devil, and he will flee from you.”

david bright did not talk much that afternoon. his injured hand gave him considerable pain, but it was not that which silenced him. thoughts too deep for utterance were passing through his brain. it was the turning-point of his life; and, while his mind was busy with the great issues that must be faced sooner or later by all mankind, he listened with mingled surprise, hope, fear, and pleasure, to the free and hearty converse of the godly crew of the gospel-ship, as they discoursed pleasantly, now of the homes in yarmouth or gorleston, now of the home above; or sang, with stentorian voices, some of the lively hymns that are happily current in the present day, or prayed in the ungrammatical language, and with the intense fervour, of untutored but thoroughly earnest men.

they thought that david was suffering from his injury, and wisely let him alone, though they occasionally gave him a cheering word, and frequently plied him with hot cocoa, which he preferred much, he said, to coffee.

this may seem to some a rather incongruous way of presenting religious and secular things. it may be so, but we are not careful to preserve congruity, or to dilute our dish to please the palate of the fastidious. this world is full of incongruities, and we are endeavouring to present that portion of it now under consideration as it actually is at the present time.

the heartiest, the most genial, and perhaps the noisiest fisherman there that day was the man whom we have referred to more than once as singing peter. it seemed as if he were intoxicated with joy, and could not refrain from bursting into song in praise of redeeming love. but peter was by no means exclusive in his ideas. he could descend to the simple matters of this life when needful. like david bright he was a temporary visitor to the mission-ship, and waited for the afternoon meeting. peter possessed:

“a heart at leisure from itself,

to soothe and sympathise,”

and found time to have a private talk with david, whom he drew out so tenderly, yet powerfully, that he wormed from him the whole story of his spiritual as well as spirituous warfare. he even got him down into the cabin alone, and, when there, proposed that they should pray together. to this david at once agreed, and the good man prayed with such simple fervour that david found himself ere long weeping like a child. that the prayer of singing peter was in harmony with his spirit was evident from the deep “amen!” which he uttered at its conclusion.

“many a time, peter,” he said, grasping his friend’s hand, as they rose from their knees, “many a time has my face bin washed wi’ salt water from the sea, but it’s not often bin dabbled wi’ salt water from my eyes!”

in the afternoon the weather became unusually sultry, and as the calm continued, many of the fishing-smacks closed by imperceptible degrees around the mission-ship, whose flag flying at the mizzen told that the worship of god was soon to begin. several of the other smacks also flew bethel-flags. these belonged to the whole-hearted ones who had fairly and boldly come out on the lord’s side. others drew near, although they did not fly the flag. some of these belonged to the half-hearted, who wanted medicines or books, and were rather indifferent about the meeting, though willing enough, perhaps, to remain to it.

one way or another there was soon a long tail of boats floating astern of the gospel-ship, and a goodly congregation on her deck. her skipper was very busy. books were being actively exchanged. one or two men wanted to sign the pledge. salves, and plasters, and pills, were slightly in demand, for even north sea fishermen, tough though they be, are subject to physical disturbance.

at last the hour arrived, and the heavy-booted, rough-jacketed, sou’-westered, burly congregation adjourned to the hold, where, appropriately seated on fish-trunks, they opened their hymn-books and began to sing.

they had a harmonium—provided, of course, by the mission—and it chanced that the mission skipper had music enough in him to play a simple accompaniment on it, but the strong-lunged congregation drowned it out in the first five minutes.

then the invalid clergyman stood up and prayed, and read a chapter of god’s word, after which he preached—ay, preached in a way that drew tears from some, and hearty exclamations of thankfulness from others. it was not the power of rhetoric or of eloquence though he possessed both, so much as that mighty power which consists in being thoroughly and intensely earnest in what one says, and in using a natural, conversational tone.

there were more signings of the temperance pledge after the service, and one or two whose minds had been wavering before, now came forward and offered to purchase bethel-flags. others wanted to purchase testaments, prayer-books, and gospel compasses—the latter being the invention of an ingenious christian. it consisted of a mariner’s compass drawn on card-board, with appropriate texts of god’s word printed on the various “points.” the same ingenious gentleman has more recently constructed a spiritual chart so to speak, on which are presented to the eye the various shoals, and quicksands, and rocks of sin, and danger, and temptation, that beset the christian pilgrim, as well as the streams, rivers, and channels, that conduct him from the regions of darkness into the realms of light.

all this took up so much time that it was getting dark when our fishermen began to go over the side, and proceed to their several vessels.

soon after that the aspect of nature entirely changed. the sultry calm gave place to a fast increasing breeze, which raised white crests on the darkening waves.

“a dirty night we’re going to have of it,” remarked david bright to singing peter, as he got into his tossing boat with some difficulty.

“it’s all in the master’s hands,” replied peter, looking up with a glad expression on his weatherworn face. with these words he left the mission smack and returned to his own vessel.

the fishermen of the north sea had cause to remember that night, for one of the worst gales of the season burst upon them. fishing was impossible. it was all that they could do to weather the gale. sails were split and torn, rigging was damaged, and spars were sprung or carried away. the wind howled as if millions of wicked spirits were yelling in the blast. the sea rose in wild commotion, tossing the little smacks as if they had been corks, and causing the straining timbers to groan and creak. many a deck was washed that night from stem to stern, and when grey morning broke cold and dreary over the foaming sea, not a few flags, half-mast high, told that some souls had gone to their account. disaster had also befallen many of the smacks. while some were greatly damaged, a few were lost entirely with all their crews.

singing peter’s vessel was among the lost. the brightening day revealed the fact that the well-known craft had disappeared. it had sunk with all hands, and the genial fisherman’s strong and tuneful voice had ceased for ever to reverberate over the north sea in order that it might for ever raise a louder and still more tuneful strain of deep-toned happiness among the harmonies of heaven.