than the rest."

"Oh, oh, oh!" shrieked the poor woman, thus deprived by envy of the
anchor of hope to which she clung. "I trusted in the mercy of God; I
could not look to the bottom of the salt deep."

"Trust to Him yet, Nancy, and all will be well," said an old
weather-beaten tar. "It is He who rules the winds and waves, and brings
the storm-tossed ship into a safe harbour."

"But what has He done for these poor men? Were they worse than the
rest?" sobbed Nancy.

"It is not for us to bring to the light what He has left in darkness,"
said the old sailor. "He took three fine lads of mine in one night, and
left me childless. But it is not for the like o' me to murmur against
_Him_. I always trusted to His providence, and I found that it gave me
strength in the hour of danger."

"Dorothy," cried he, turning to Mrs. Grimshawe, "it is your turn to go
in. It's no use crying and hanging back. Mayhap Dan has escaped the
storm, an' is spreading a white sheet to the fine, fresh breeze this
morning."

"My heart feels as cold as a stone," sobbed Dorothy: "I dare not go
forward; I feel--I know that he is there."

"Shall I go for you? I have known Dan from a boy."

"Oh, no, no; I must see with my own eyes," said Dorothy; "nothing else
will convince me that he is either saved, or lost;" and she hurried into
the hall.

Trembling with apprehension, the poor woman entered the melancholy place
of death. The bodies were arranged in rows along the floor, and covered
decently with coarse clean sheets. The mournful and mysterious silence
which always broods above the dead, was broken by sighs and sobs. Wives,
mothers, sisters, and little children, were collected in heartrending
groups around some uncovered and dearly-loved face, whose glassy eyes,
staring and motionless, were alike unconscious of their presence and
their tears.

Mrs. Grimshawe recoiled with a sudden backward step--"What if Dan is
here?" She pressed her hands tightly upon her breast--the stifled cry of
agony and fear that burst from her lips, nearly choked her--she clutched
at the bare walls for support, and panted and gasped for breath.

A little humpbacked child, after casting upon her mother a look of
unutterable pity, slowly advanced to the first shrouded figure, and,
kneeling down, reverentially lifted the sheet, and gazed long and sadly
upon the object beneath. "Father!" murmured the child; no other word
escaped her quivering lips. She meekly laid her hea