Wilton School | Page 2

"Mamma's cough won't trouble her long, my boy. You'll take care of
her for me, won't you, Harry? and see her safe off on her journey?"
He spoke very quietly now; but if he had not used those ambiguous
sentences, he would have broken down, he knew.
And then the good-bye was said. He kissed Harry tenderly, and then
gathered his weeping wife to his breast. And with an earnest "God
guard you!" that well-nigh seemed to break the bursting heart from
whence the words arose, he moved quickly from the room. So it was all
over now! The long good-bye had been said.
"Take care of her and the boy, Mrs Valentine," he said to the farmer's
wife, as she came hurrying up from the orchard to see him before he
left, "and God will reward you. It will not be for long, I fancy. The boy
must stay with you till I come back."
"I will, I will sir; bless her dear heart!" the farmer's wife cried, while
the tears started to her eyes. "Poor soul, poor soul!" she murmured after
him, as he passed bravely down the lane, villagewards.
And there, in the little farm by the church, sat the pale wife weeping
over her wondering boy, while the shadows of the summer night stole
ghost-like over the lands, till the window was but a faint dim square in

the sad darkness that was within.
That night the Queen's good ship "Thunderer" weighed anchor from the
roadstead where she had been lying off Wilton, and with canvass
stretched, and engines at full speed, swung down the Bristol channel on
the ebb tide, to join the flying squadron on a six months' cruise. And
though many a heart, of seamen and officer alike, felt heavy at parting
from sweetheart or wife, in none was there the dull, hopeless agony that
dwelt behind the stern face of Chief-engineer Campbell, as he talked on
deck with his fellow-officers, or issued his orders to his men below.
CHAPTER II.
WHY THE SAD GOOD-BYE WAS GIVEN.
In commission--At home in Malta--After long years--Settled at
Wilton--Unwelcome tidings--Unavailing skill.
Fourteen years ago, amid the mists of Scotland, there was a bonny
wedding at a hill-side kirk; the bride, a sweet young English girl, who
had left her southern home to pay a visit to her uncle, the old
village-pastor; the bridegroom, a stout sailor, home from sea for a short
while at his native village. And after a six weeks' happy wooing, a
happy wedding took the two away, far from the heathery hills and the
mountain lochs; far from the moors and fells of Scotland.
A brief honeymoon of quiet, unmarred happiness, and Alan Campbell
received instructions to join his ship, ordered to Malta for three years.
His wife, of course, could not sail with him, so he took a berth for her
in one of the ordinary passenger steamers that run from Southampton to
the island. And after seeing her safe on board one rainy April afternoon,
her tearful face itself like April weather, he took the evening mail-train
to Plymouth, and the following morning was on board his ship. It was
not long before his impatience was gratified, and the "Thunderer"
steamed out into the English Channel.
Thus over the great waves, through time of sun and stars, through storm
and shine, sailed the two parted many miles of heaving sea; Minnie,

pale and trembling in her little cabin, with the noise of the waters ever
sounding in her sleepless ears; Alan pacing to and fro in the heat and
throbbing of the engines of the "Thunderer."
It was a joyful meeting at the island-fortress in the blue Mediterranean.
Alan obtained leave to sleep on shore, and took a little white cottage
that overlooked the bay, where the good ship "Thunderer" lay at anchor;
and there, at her outhanging window, every evening Minnie would sit,
looking so anxiously across the bay towards the great black hull of the
vessel, till a gig would put off that brought Alan home to her.
So the days and weeks went on. The spring died into the summer's
flowery lap; the summer ripened and mellowed unto the golden autumn;
and when the year's late last months were come, there was another
inmate in the little cottage by the bay; another pair of eyes, blue as the
mother's, to greet Alan as he came home at night; another pair of hands
to hold and call his own.
The time ran as quickly as it ran happily. The three years passed, and
again Alan had to put his wife on board a passenger steamer bound for
England--this time with her boy Harry to bear her company, a sturdy
young gentleman of somewhat over two years; while he himself sailed