As we have before stated, it was a clear frosty night; not a single cloud obscured the myriad stars that glittered in the deep vault of heaven. And as Dick Bates wandered under the light of the stars along the long line of docks, no one would have believed that this anxious-faced man was the brutal drunkard that only on the previous night punished his unoffending children without mercy.

Was it God that was working in his heart, bringing back to him the memories of other years, and awaking within him better thoughts? Who shall say it was not?

Still on he went, starting continually as he fancied he saw something white on the dark still water. "How nice it would be," he muttered, "to sleep for ever! to be free fra the worry an' trouble." But how could he know that death was endless sleep? Might it not be, as his Mary said it was, the beginning of a life that should never end? He was now near the boat under which his children lay. It was his footstep that startled them just as they were dropping off to sleep. It was his voice that muttered the words, "O Death! what dost thou mean?"

How near father and children had come to each other! but neither knew of the other's presence: then they drifted apart again, to meet no more on earth. There were only a few small vessels in the next dock, and all the lights were out.

"There they be, sure enough," said Dick, as something white, floating on the surface of the water, caught his eye, and he went close up to the edge of the dock, forgetful of the fact that the huge damp coping stones had, by the action of the frost, become as slippery as glass. He had scarcely planted his foot on one of the huge stones when it slipped from beneath him; a piercing shriek rang out on the startled air, followed by a plunge, a gurgling cry, and the cold water closed over him.

A moment later a pale agonized face gleamed up from the dark water, a hurried prayer floated up on the cold frosty air, "Saviour of my Mary, save me!" then the water closed over him again. Two other times, at longer intervals, Dick Bates' agonized and horror-stricken face appeared for a moment on the surface; then the ruffled waters grew smooth, hiding in their dark bosom the dead body of Richard Bates, whose soul had been so suddenly called to its account.

The next day the dead body was dragged to the surface, and conveyed to the dead-house, where it was claimed by his wife. An inquest and a funeral followed, of which Benny and little Nell never knew. And it was well, perhaps, they did not. The knowledge would have been pain to the little waifs, and they had already as much trouble as their little hearts knew how to bear.