“Amen,” said Fullerton.  “Amen,” added the other three men.  “Amen,” said the sick sailors; and the Amen rustled softly above the lower rustle of the water that fled past the sides of the swift vessel.  We shall see this brave hospital ship again, for I want to dream of her for long and many a day.  Meantime, adieu, sweet lady; adieu.

APPENDIX A.

Since I set down a picture of my North Sea dream, I have passed through a valley of shadows.  The world of men seemed to be shut out; the Past was forgotten, or, through the dark, vague trouble, Death smiled on me coldly, as if to warn me that my pulses must soon be touched with ice.  In that strange trance my petty self was forgotten, and I waited quietly till I should be bathed in the flood of bliss to which Death is but the Portal.  As from some dim, far land there came echoes of storm and stress, and then swift visions of the sea flitted past my eyes.  While gazing languidly on the whirl of the snow, or listening to the thunder of winds in the clamorous night, I thought, as it were in flashes, about the fishermen who people the grey country that I used to know.  Nevermore, oh! nevermore shall I see the waves charging down on the gallant smacks.  All is gone:  but my little share of a good work is done; I have warmed both hands before the fire of Life; it sinks, and I am ready to depart.

The dream has begun to come true in a way which is rather calculated to astound most folks:  a hospital vessel, the Queen Victoria, is actually at work, and has gone out on the wintry sea just at the time when the annual record of suffering reaches its most intense stage; a scheme at which grave men naturally shook their heads has been shown to be practicable, and we see once more that the visionary often has the most accurate insight into the possibilities of action.  To those who do not go to sea I will give one hint; if a man is sent home on the long journey over the North Sea, he not only suffers grievously but he loses his employment, and his family fare badly. If he be transferred to the hospital ship his place is filled for a little while by one of the spare hands whom the Mission sends out, and his berth is saved for him. I do not deny that the scheme is rather impressive in the magnitude of its difficulty; but then no man breathing—­except its originator—­would ever have fancied, five years ago, that the Mission would become one of the miracles of modern social progress.  If comfortable folks at home could only see how those gallant, battered fishermen suffer under certain circumstances of toil and weather, they would hardly wonder at my putting forward the hospital project so urgently.  By rights I ought to have spoken about other branches of the Mission’s work, but the importance of the healing department has overshadowed all other considerations in my mind.  To Dare, and Dare again, and Dare always, is the one