have instilled into my mind through twelve years of sacrifices and love.
THE SHIPWRECK
(Last Monthly Story.)
One morning in the month of December, several years ago, there sailed from the port of Liverpool a huge steamer, which had on board two hundred persons, including a crew of seventy. The captain and nearly all the sailors were English. Among the passengers there were several Italians,—three gentlemen, a priest, and a company of musicians. The steamer was bound for the island of Malta. The weather was threatening.
Among the third-class passengers forward, was an Italian lad of twelve, small for his age, but robust; a bold, handsome, stern face, of Sicilian type. He was alone near the fore-mast, seated on a coil of cordage, beside a well-worn valise, which contained his effects, and upon which he kept a hand. His complexion was brown, and his black and wavy hair descended to his shoulders. He was meanly clad, and had a tattered mantle thrown over his shoulders, and an old leather pouch on a cross-belt. He gazed thoughtfully about him at the passengers, the ship, the sailors who were running past, and at the restless sea. He had the appearance of a boy who had lately gone through a great family sorrow,—the face of a child, the expression of a man.
A little after their departure, one of the steamer's
