When we were boys," he said to Ernest, as they set out to return, "and
you used to talk about Europe, we little thought I should travel into it
so carelessly as I did when I came here. I crossed it much as a pair of
compasses would on the map: my only points of rest were the home I left
and the one I was reaching for."

Much in the same way they passed through it again. Harry spoke of
and observed outward things, but everything showed that it was but a
superficial observation. His thoughts were with Violet.

"'The Nereid!' are you very sure the Nereid is a sound vessel?" he often
asked.

"What should I know of the Nereid?" at last answered Ernest,
impatiently.

"I believe you don't care a rush for Violet!" cried Harry. "You can have
dreams instead! Your Psyche, your winged angels and all your visions,
they suffice you. While for me,--I tell you, Ernest, she is my flesh and
blood, my meat and drink. To think of her alone on that ocean drives me
wild; that inexorable sea haunts me night and day." He turned to look at
Ernest, and saw him pale and livid.

"God forgive me!" he said. "I know you love her, too! But it is our old
quarrel; we cannot understand each other, yet cannot live either of us
without the other. Yet I am glad to quarrel even in the old way. That is
pleasant, after all, is it not?"

They had a long, stormy voyage home; and a delay in crossing France had
made them miss the steamer they hoped to take. At each delay, Ernest
grew more silent, sadder, his face darker, his features thinner and more
sharpened. Harry was wild in his impatience, and angry, but more and
more thoughtful and careful for Ernest.

At last they reached the harbor. A friend met them who had been warned
of their arrival by telegraph from Halifax. He met them to tell them of
ill news; they would rather hear it from him.

The Nereid was lost,--lost just outside the Bay,--the vessel, the crew,
all the passengers,--in a fearful storm of a week ago, the very storm
that had delayed their own passage.

"Let us go home," said Harry. "Where is it?" asked Ernest. "Why were we
not lost in the same storm?" cried Harry. "How could we pass quietly
along the very place?"

The brothers went home into the old room. Kindly hands had been caring
for it,--had tried to place all things in their accustomed order. Even
the canary had come back from Aunt Martha's parlor.

There was a letter on the table. Harry saw that only. It was Violet's
letter,