t he would obey her. "I'll work no more for you at present," said he,
"sweet as it has been. I will think instead. I will go this moment
beneath the stars and think all night."

The young woman was now leaning her head languidly back against one of
the trees, weak as water after her passion. He cast a look of ineffable
love and pity on her, and withdrew slowly to think beneath the tranquil
stars.

Love has set men hard tasks in his time. Whether this was a light one,
our reader shall decide.

TO DIFFUSE INTELLIGENCE FROM A FIXED ISLAND OVER A HUNDRED LEAGUES OF
OCEAN.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE perplexity into which Hazel was thrown by the outburst of his
companion rendered him unable to reduce her demand at once to an
intelligible form. For some moments he seriously employed his mind on the
problem until it assumed this shape.

Firstly: I do not know where this island is, having no means of
ascertaining either its latitude or longitude.

Secondly: If I had such a description of its locality, how might the news
be conveyed beyond the limits of the place?

As the wildness of Helen's demand broke upon his mind, he smiled sadly,
and sat down upon the bank of the little river, near his boat-house, and
buried his head in his hands. A deep groan burst from him, and the tears
at last came through his fingers, as in despair he thought how vain must
be any effort to content or to conciliate her. Impatient with his own
weakness he started to his feet, when a hand was laid gently upon his
arm. She stood beside him.

"Mr. Hazel," she said hurriedly--her voice was husky--"do not mind what I
have said. I am unreasonable; and I am sure I ought to feel obliged to
you for all the--"

Hazel turned his face toward her, and the moon glistened on the tears
that still flowed down his cheeks. He tried to check the utterance of her
apology; but, ere he could master his voice, the girl's cold and
constrained features seemed to melt. She turned away, wrung her hands,
and, with a sharp, quivering cry, she broke forth:

"Oh, sir! oh, Mr. Hazel! do forgive me. I am not ungrateful, indeed,
indeed, I am not; but I am mad with despair. Judge me with compassion. At
this moment, those who are very, very dear to me are awaiting my arrival
in London; and, when they learn the loss of the _Proserpine,_ how great
will be their misery! Well, that misery is added to mine. Then my poor
papa. He will never know how much he loved me until this news re