He rose and looked around.  The scene had not changed at all; in fact, there was no scene to change.  There was nothing but black darkness all around.  Suddenly something knocked against the boat.  He reached out his hand, and touched a piece of wood, which the next instant slipped from his grasp.  But the disappointment was not without its alleviation, for he thought that he might come across some bits of drift wood, with which he could do something, perhaps, for his escape.  And so buoyant was his soul, and so obstinate his courage, that this little incident of itself served to revive his faculties.  He went to the stern of the boat, and sitting there, he tried to think upon what might be best to be done.

What could be done in such a situation?  He could swim, but of what avail was that?  In what direction could he swim, or what progress could he make, with such a tide?  As to paddling, he thought of that no more; paddling was exhausted, and his board was useless.  Nothing remained, apparently, but inaction.  Inaction was indeed hard, and it was the worst condition in which he could be placed, for in such a state the mind always preys upon itself; in such a state trouble is always magnified, and the slow time passes more slowly.  Yet to this inaction he found himself doomed.

He floated on now for hours, motionless and filled with despair, listening to the dash of the waves, which were the only sounds that came to his ears.  And so it came to pass, in process of time, that by incessant attention to these monotonous sounds, they ceased to be altogether monotonous, but seemed to assume various cadences and intonations.  His sharpened ears learned at last to distinguish between the dash of large waves and the plash of small ones, the sighing of the wind, the pressure of the waters against the boat’s bows, and the ripple of eddies under its stern.  Worn out by excitement and fatigue, he lay motionless, listening to sounds like these, and taking in them a mournful interest, when suddenly, in the midst of them, his ears caught a different cadence.  It was a long, measured sound, not an unfamiliar one, but one which he had often heard—­the gathering sound which breaks out, rising and accumulating upon the ear, as the long line of surf falls upon some rocky shore.  He knew at once what this was, and understood by it that he was near some shore; but what shore it might be he could not know.  The sound came up from his right, and therefore might be the New Brunswick coast, if the boat had preserved its proper position.  But the position of the boat had been constantly changing as she drifted along, so that it was impossible to tell whether he was drifting stern foremost or bow foremost.  The water moved as the boat moved, and there was no means by which to judge.  He listened to the surf, therefore, but made no attempt to draw nearer to it.  He now knew perfectly well that with his present resources no efforts of