d in Texas, confessed on
his death-bed that he was one of a crew of mutineers who took
possession of the _Patriot_ and forced the passengers, as well as the
officers and men, to walk the plank. He professed to remember Mrs.
Alston well, and said she was the last one who perished. He never
forgot her look of despair as she stepped into the sea--with her head
held high even in the face of death.

Among Theodosia's papers was found a letter addressed to her husband,
written at a time when she was weary of the struggle. On the envelope
was written: "My Husband. To be delivered after my death. I wish this
to be read immediately and before my burial."

He never saw the letter, for he never had the courage to go through
her papers, and after his death it was sent to her father. It came to
him like a message from the grave:

"Let my father see my son, sometimes," she had written. "Do
not be unkind to him whom I have loved so much, I beseech of
you. Burn all my papers except my father's letters, which I
beg you to return to him."

A long time afterward, her father married Madame Jumel, a rich New
York woman who was many years his junior, but the alliance was
unfortunate, and was soon annulled. Through all the rest of his life,
he never wholly gave up the hope that Theodosia might return. He clung
fondly to the belief that she had been picked up by another ship, and
some day would be brought back to him.

Day by day, he haunted the Battery, anxiously searching the faces of
the incoming passengers, asking some of them for tidings of his
daughter, and always believing that the next ship would bring her
back.

He became a familiar figure, for he was almost always there--a bent,
shrunken little man, white-haired, leaning heavily upon his cane,
asking questions in a thin piping voice, and straining his dim eyes
forever toward the unsounded waters, from whence the idol of his heart
never came.

For out within those waters, cruel, changeless,
She sleeps, beyond all rage of earth or sea;
A smile upon her dear lips, dumb, but waiting,
And I--I hear the sea-voice calling me.

The Sea-Voice

Beyond the sands I hear the sea-voice calling
With passion all but human in its pain,
While from my eyes the bitter tears are falling,
And all the summer land seems blind with rain;
For out within those waters, cruel, changeless,
She sleeps, beyond all