e saw that everything had been done for the
invalid that their united skill could accomplish, he bridled an
untrained ostrich, and rode or rather flew off in search of the land
portion of the expedition.

"Mary is saved," he cried, as he came up with them.

"From what?" inquired Wolston, anxiously.

"From the sea, that was about to swallow her up."

"And by whom?"

"By Willis, myself, and us all."

The same evening, the two families were again assembled at Falcon's
Nest, and thus, for a second time, the long talked-of expedition was
brought to an abrupt conclusion.

"Ah," said Willis, "we must cast anchor for a bit; yesterday it was
the sky, to-day it was the sea, to-morrow it will be the land,
perhaps--the wind is clearly against us."

How often does it not happen, in our pilgrimage through life, that we
have the wind against us? We make a resolute determination, we set out
on our journey, but the object we seek recedes as we advance; it is no
use going any farther--the wind is against us. We re-commence ten,
twenty, a hundred times, but the result is invariably the same. How is
this? No one can tell. What are the obstacles? It is difficult to say.
Perhaps, we meet with a friend who detains us; perhaps, a recollection
that our memory has called, induces us to swerve from the path--the
blind man that sung under our window may have something to do with
it--perhaps, it was merely a fly, less than nothing.

It is not our minor undertakings, but rather our most important
enterprises, that are frustrated by such trifles as these; for it must
be allowed that we strive less tenaciously against an obstacle that
debars us from a pleasure, than against one that separates us from a
duty--in the one case we have to stem the torrent, in the other we
sail with the current.

When we observe some deplorable instance of a wrecked career--when we
see a man starting in life with the most brilliant prospects
collapsing into a dead-weight on his fellows, we are apt to suppose
that some insurmountable barrier must have crossed his path--some
Himalaya, or formidable wall, like that which does not now separate
China from Tartary; but no such thing. Trace the cause to its source,
and what think you is invariably found? A grain of sand; the
unfortunate wretch has had the wind against him--nothing more.

Rescued from the sea, Mary Wolston was now a prey to a raging fever.
Ill or well, at her age there is no medium, either exuberant