The burial was an impressive sight, as burials at sea mostly are. The
lonely waters stretching to the horizon helped to make it so. There was
a melancholy majesty in the ceremony.

The clanging bell had stopped. Captain Ascott was in his place at the
head of the rude draped bier. In the silence one only heard the swish of
water against the 'Fulvia's' side, as we sped on towards Aden. People do
not know how beautiful, how powerful, is the burial service in the Book
of Common Prayer, who have only heard it recited by a clergyman. To hear
it read by a hardy man, whose life is among stern duties, is to receive a
new impression. He knows nothing of lethargic monotone; he interprets as
he reads. And when the man is the home-spun captain of a ship, who sees
before him the poor shell of one that served him for ten years, "The Lord
gave and the Lord hath taken away; Blessed be the name of the Lord," has
a strange significance. It is only men who have borne the shock of toil
and danger, and have beaten up against the world's buffetings, that are
fit to say last words over those gone down in the storm or translated in
the fiery chariot of duty.

The engines suddenly stopped. The effect was weird. Captain Ascott's
fingers trembled, and he paused for an instant and looked down upon the
dead, then out sorrowfully to the waiting sea, before he spoke the words,
"We therefore commit their bodies to the deep." But, the moment they
were uttered, the bier was lifted, there was a swift plunge, and only the
flag and the empty boards were left. The sobbing of women now seemed
almost unnatural; for around us was the bright sunlight, the gay dresses
of the lascars, the sound of the bell striking the hours, and children
playing on the deck. The ship moved on.

And Mrs. Falchion? As the burial service was read, she had stood, and