Seldom have the mysterious sparks of life been sought for more anxiously, or tended and nursed with greater care, than were the little sparks of fire which were evoked with difficulty from Tomlin’s match-box.  
Drizzling rain had commenced just as the wrecked party landed. The tarpaulin had been set up as a slight though very imperfect shelter; the ground underneath had been strewn with twigs and grass, and a large pile of dead branches had been arranged to receive the vital spark before any attempt was made to create it.
 
“Everything must be quite ready, first,” said Hayward to Tomlin, “for our very lives depend, under God, on our securing fire; so keep the matches snug in your pocket till I ask for them.”
 
“I will,” replied Tomlin, “D’you know it never occurred to me before how tremendously important the element of fire is? But how will you ever manage to make the branches catch, everything being so thoroughly soaked?”
 
“You shall see. I have had to make a fire in worse circumstances than the present,” returned Hayward, “though I admit they are bad enough. Have you got the small twigs broken and ready, Slag?”
 
“All ready, sir.”
 
“Now look here, Tomlin.”
 
As he spoke, the doctor picked up a dead but wet branch, and, sheltering himself under the tarpaulin, began to whittle it with his penknife. He found, of course, that the interior of the branch was dry. The thin morsels which he sliced off were handed to Slag, who placed them with great care in the heart of a bundle of very small twigs resembling a crow’s nest. A place had been reserved for this bundle or nest, in the heart of the large pile of branches lying on the ground. Meanwhile, Slag held the nest ready in his hands.
 
“Now, Tomlin, get out your matches,” said the doctor.
 
With the utmost care the anxious man unfolded the kerchief, and, opening the box, looked into it earnestly.
 
“Wet?” asked Hayward.
 
Tomlin shook his head. “I fear they are.” He took one out, while the whole party assembled round him to note the result.
 
The first match dropped its head like a piece of soft putty when scraped on the lid. The second did the same, and a suppressed groan escaped from the little group, for it could be seen that there were not more than ten or twelve matches in the box altogether. Again and again a match was struck with similar result. The fifth, however, crackled a little, and rekindled, sinking hope in the observers, though it failed to kindle itself. The seventh burst at once into a bright blaze and almost drew forth a cheer, which, however, was checked when a puff of wind blew out the new-born flame.
 
“Och! let Bob Massey try it!” cried O’Connor. “Sure he’s used to workin’ in throublesome weather.”
 
“Right, boy,” said Slag, “hand it to the coxs’n.”
 
Tomlin readily obeyed, only too glad to get some of the failure shifted to other shoulders.
 
Massey readily undertook the task, and success attended his first effort.
 
“I knowed it!” said Nellie, in a quiet tone, as she saw the bright flame leap up and almost set her husband’s beard on fire. “Bob never fails!”
 
The burning match was quickly plunged into Hayward’s handful of shavings, which blazed up as he thrust it into Slag’s nest; and Slag, holding the nest with the tender care of a loving sick-nurse and the cool indifference of a salamander till it was a flaming ball, crammed it into the heart of the pile of sticks. Tremendous was the volume of smoke that arose from the pile, and anxious were the looks riveted on it.
 
“Sure ye’ve smothered it intirely,” gasped O’Connor.
 
“Oh, me!” sighed Peggy in a voice of mild despair.
 
“No fear, it’s all right,” said Massey, in a confident tone, while Joe Slag, on his knees, with cheeks inflated and nose all but kindling, blew at the glowing heart with unwearied determination, regardless alike of friend and foe.
 
“It’s going to do,” remarked John Mitford in his most dismal tone.
 
“Any child might tell that,” said Nellie, with a light laugh.
 
The laugh seemed infectious, for the whole party joined in as a glorious gush of flame rushed among the sticks, dried up the dampness, and effectually changed the pillar of smoke into a pillar of fire.
 
The fire thus kindled was rightly deemed of such vital importance that it was not permitted to go out thereafter for many months, being watched night and day by members of the party appointed to the duty by turns. It had, indeed, not a few narrow escapes, and more than once succeeded in reaching what appeared to be its last spark, but was always caught in time and recovered, and thus was kept burning until a discovery was made which rendered such constant attendance and care unnecessary.
 
“Now,” said Dr Hayward, when the fire was safely established, “we have not much daylight left, so it behoves us to make the most of it. You are a man of action and experience, Robert Massey, what would you advise us to do first?”
 
“Well, doctor, since you’re good enough to ask me, I would advise that we should appoint a leader. You see, mates,” he continued, addressing himself to the company in general, “there’s no possibility of a ship gettin’ along without a captain, or an army without a general. If we was going off to a wreck now, with or without a lifeboat, I would claim a sort o’ right to be coxswain in virtue o’ past experience; but, as we’ve now begun a sort o’ shore-goin’ business, which requires a deal o’ general knowledge, besides seamanship, an’ as Dr Hayward has got that by edication, I move that we make him our leader.”
 
“Right you are, Bob,” said Joe Slag. (“As he always is,” said Nellie, sotto voce.) “So I second the move—if that’s the reg’lar way to do it.”
 
“Hear, hear!” said every one with right good will, and a gleam of pride flashed from Eva’s pretty brown eyes as her husband was thus unanimously appointed leader of the shipwrecked band.
 
Like a sensible man, knowing his capacity, he at once accepted the command without any display of undue modesty, and proved his fitness by at once going to work.
 
“The first thing, then, is to thank God for our deliverance, which we all do, I am sure, most heartily.”
 
This was received with a responsive “Amen” from every one—not even excepting Black Ned.
 
“Next, we must find fresh water and boil a bit of pork—”
 
“Ah, then, we haven’t a kittle!” exclaimed O’Connor.
 
“Haven’t we a big baling-dish, Terrence?” said Hayward.
 
“Sure we have, sor, an’ it’s a tin wan as’ll stand fire,” returned Terrence with a reproved look.
 
“Well, then, you go fetch it; wash it well out and get the pork ready. Jarring and Tomlin will gather as much dead wood as they can find and pile it beside the fire. Mitford will search for fresh water—there must be a spring or brook not far off—and Massey and I will rig up some sort of shelter for the night.”
 
“Please, sir, may I go with Mitford to seek for water?” asked Nellie.
 
“By all means, if you wish to.”
 
“And I will keep you company, Nell,” said Mrs Hayward energetically.
 
“So will I,” chimed in little Mrs Mitford, feebly. “I was always fond of water. As a child I used to paddle about in it continually, an’ sometimes tumbled into it, for of course young people will—”
 
“No,............