_mal de mer_ had fastened upon me. We were standing close by the
railing of the promenade deck when a something swept by on the water.
"Child overboard!" I sang out as loudly as I could. Instantly the
steerage was in a state of commotion--the child was missed. There
didn't appear to be a sailor on the spot. The Bishop looked at me,
and I looked at the Bishop. Like lightning he tore off his coat. I
put my hand on his arm.
"Dear sir, you will not do such a thing!"
"What is it, Henry?" cried his wife. "Somebody must."
"I wish to God I could, sir!" In another moment he was over.
How he ever recovered from that awful plunge I don't know, but a
boat was immediately lowered for him and the child--he had it safe,
miraculously enough. How I cursed my weakness which prevented my
going in his place. But when I saw the two lives saved I was glad I
had not gone, for in my weak state I could not even have saved the
child.
I am invited to a Christmas dinner, _whenever I like_, with the
Bishop of Saskabasquia, whom I count as perhaps the finest specimen
of healthy Christian manhood I have ever met, and although I can
still laugh at the fun of "The Private Secretary" I can say that
even among her clergy England can boast of heroes in these latter
days as noble and disinterested as in years gone by.
"As it was in the Beginning."
A CHRISTMAS SKETCH.
CHAPTER I.
It is Christmas day in the morning. There is no doubt about it. The
shine of the sun, the frost on the trees, the voice of the birds,
and the unusual crow, and cackle and clatter and confusion outside
the house can leave no doubts upon the subject, to say nothing of
the inside of the house. Here it is Christmas day and no mistake. On
what other day is the larder so full?--Full is not expressive enough;
crammed, rammed, jammed full is more like the actual condition of
things, so tightly wedged are pheasants and partridges, grouse and
quail, great roasts of beef and haunches of venison, pork and pasty,
mutton and fowl. On what other day is the still-room so alluring,
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