When the gig came up under the counter of the Young America, a line was thrown down to the bowman who made it fast to the ring.  The passengers were then taken aboard in slings rigged on the spanker-boom, which was swung over the lee quarter for the purpose.  Part of the boat’s crew were taken on board in the same way, and then the gig was hoisted up to the davits with the rest in her.

Before the barge was allowed to come up under the counter, the officer of the deck wore ship, so as to bring the port quarter, on which the boat was to be suspended, on the lee side.  Her passengers were taken on deck as those from the gig had been, and she was hoisted up.

“Mr. Kendall, I congratulate you upon the success of your labors,” said Mr. Lowington, when the second lieutenant reached the deck.  “You have handled your boat exceedingly well, and you deserve a great deal of credit.”

“That’s a fact, sir,” added Boatswain Peaks, touching his cap.  “I hardly spoke a word to him, and I’ve seen many a boat worse handled in a sea.”

Paul blushed at the praise bestowed upon him, but he was proud and happy to have done his duty faithfully on this important occasion.  The same commendation was given to the first lieutenant, after the barge had been hauled up to the davits, and the order given for the ship to fill away again.

The women and children were conducted to the professors’ cabin as soon as they came on board, and the seamen were taken into the steerage.  All of them were exhausted by the anxiety and the hardships they had endured, and as soon as their safety was insured, they sank almost helpless under the pressure of their physical weakness.

“This is a school ship, I’m told,” said Captain Greely, the master of the shipwrecked vessel, who had also been invited to the main cabin.

“Yes, sir; we call it the Academy Ship, and we have eighty-seven young gentlemen on board,” replied Mr. Lowington.

“They are smart boys, sir.  I never saw boats better handled than those which brought us off from the ship,” added Captain Greely, warmly.

“Your voyage has come to an unfortunate conclusion,” said Mr. Lowington.

“Yes, sir; I have lost my ship, but I thank God my wife and children are safe,” answered the weather-beaten seaman, as he glanced at one of the women while the great tears flowed down his sun-browned cheeks.

“Poor children!” sighed Mr. Agneau, as he patted the little girl on the head; and his own eyes were dim with the tears he shed for others’ woes.

Captain Greely told his story very briefly.  His ship was the Sylvia, thirty days out of Liverpool, bound to New York.  She had encountered a heavy gale a week before, in which she had badly sprung her mainmast.  Finding it impossible to lay her to under the foresail, they had been compelled to set the main-topsail, reefed; but even this was too much for the weak mast, and it had gone by the board, carrying