"Let me see that," said the dying mate; "I want to look at it—every cap'n reads the log himself."
I gave him the book and held the lamp above him.
"Ye haven't got another of them, have ye, sir?" he asked wistfully.
"Of what?" said I.
"Of this here book—I want to read it when you're gone; or Tim—Tim could read it to me."
I told him, of course, that I would leave the book.
"Turn down the page—mark the place," he said, handing me the volume. "I'm afeared I'd soon be driftin' again if we lost it."
"I'll mark some other passages too," I suggested, "some almost equally beautiful."
"That there one's enough," he said, sinking back faintly on his pillow.
I sang him a hymn, the one that dying men should always hear; and then I had a little prayer with him. His hands were folded and his eyes were closed. When I rose from my knees he whispered something that I shall treasure while memory lasts. But it needed only a glance to see that the end was near. I opened the door to call his wife and child back to him.