little head;

 Thou hadst but a manger bare,  Rugged straw for pillow fair.   "Saviour, 'twas to win me grace  Thou didst stoop to this poor place,  Loving with a perfect love  Child and man and God above.   "Thou wast meek and undefiled:  Make me gentle, too, and mild;  Thou didst foil the tempter's power:  Help me in temptation's hour.   "Thou didst love Thy mother here,  Make me gentle, kind, and dear;  Thou didst mind her slightest word,  Teach me to obey, O Lord.   "Happy now, I turn to sleep;  Thou wilt watch around me keep;  Him no danger e'er can harm  Who lies cradled in Thy arm."  

When Ingleby came up, she found Dorothy sound asleep, and her arm round Irene's neck. Both children were in profound slumber. Ingleby gently lifted Irene and carried her back to her own room, Dorothy murmuring as she turned round on her pillow, "Away with the swallows, off to the sunny South."

They were off in good earnest the next morning—a bright and beautiful morning. The sea was blue, and the sky clear; only a brisk wind chased the waves shoreward, and gave just that motion which to good sailors is so delightful.

There were, of course, some unhappy people who could not bear even that gentle motion, and had to take flight to the cabin. Poor Ingleby was one of these, and in spite of all her brave attempts to keep up, she was obliged to leave the children to Canon Percival's care, and retreat with her mistress to the lower regions.

Dorothy and Irene sat together on the middle seat of the deck, with their faces to the dancing waves, over which some white birds were darting, who had their nests in the face of the cliffs of Dover. It had all the delightful sense of novelty to Dorothy, but Irene was already a traveller. In a dim, dreamy way she was thinking of her voyage home, four years before; she remembered the pain of parting with the dark-skinned ayah, and her father's sad face, as they drew near England.