bays."

"We owe to you, Rhoda, this comforting hope," said Vesta, "and, while
you are with us, we shall teach you to read more confidently."

Vesta then sang Charles Wesley's hymn:

"'Jesus, in us thyself reveal!
The winds are hushed, the sea is still,
If in the ship Thou art.
Oh, manifest Thy power divine;
Enter this sinking church of Thine,
And dwell in every heart.'"

The sounds of her singing reached the people, rambling curiously around
on Sunday afternoon to see the principals in the surprising marriage
they had but lately heard of, and, as she ended, Mr. Milburn called her,
saying,

"It is time for you to leave me till to-morrow."

"Is that your desire?"

"It is, kind lady. I have a servant-man, Samson, used to all my work,
and you can hear of my condition through your slave girls, going and
coming. I want you to feel free as ever, though my wife at last. I did
not seek you to cloud your morning, but to share your sunshine. Go to
Teackle Hall, and there I will come when I am stronger. At no time do I
ever wish you to sleep in this old stable."

"May I come and sit with you to-morrow, sir?"

"Oh, do so! I must see you a little day by day."

"May I take Rhoda with me?"

"Yes, if you will do it. She is a poor girl, but that is not her fault."

Vesta bent and touched his forehead with her lips, and, as she drew
back, he raised his cold hand and put a piece of paper in hers.

"Present my love to your mother," he said, in a chill; "and return her
the losses Judge Custis has named to me as her portion in Nassawongo
furnace. The amount is in this check, which I give you, although it is
Sunday, because it represents no business among any of us, but an act of
peace."

"You are an honorable man," Vesta said; "I have cost you dearly."

"It is the bumping of a few years on the bar," Meshach answered, trying
to smile; "be you my anchor out in calm water, and I will try to draw to
you some day. It is not the price I pay that troubles me; it is the
price you are paying."

"I am deeply interested in you," Vesta said; "if I should say more than
that, it would not now be true."

"Thank you for that much," Milburn said; "even your pity is a treasure,
and I thank God that I have made so much progress. Before you go, let my
bird come in, and then shut the window, to keep the night-hawks and owls
from finding him."

He managed, between his rising paroxysms of the chill, to whistle a note
or two