ng and denouncing their respective creeds in the most
unchristianlike manner, each failing to convince the other, or gain the
least upon his opponent.

"That is the religion of words," said Lyndsay, one day to Flora, as they
had been for some time silent listeners to one of Mr. S----'s fierce
arguments on predestination--"I wonder how that man's actions would
agree with his boasted sanctity?"

"Let him alone," said Flora; "time will perhaps show. I have no faith in
him."

For three weeks the _Anne_ was becalmed upon the Banks. They were
surrounded by a dense fog, which hid even the water from their sight,
while the beams of sun and moon failed to penetrate the white vapour
which closed them in on every side. It was no longer a pleasure to pace
the deck in the raw damp air and drizzling rain, which tamed even the
little tailor's aspiring soul, and checked the merry dancers and the
voice of mirth. Flora retreated to the cabin, and read all the books in
the little cupboard at her bed-head. A "Life of Charles XII. of Sweden,"
an odd volume of "Pamela," and three of "The Children of the Abbey"
comprised the Captain's library. What could she do to while away the
lagging hours? She thought, and re-thought--at length, she determined to
weave some strange incidents, which chance had thrown in her way, into a
story, that might divert her mind from dwelling too much upon the
future, and interest her husband. So unpacking her writing-desk, she set
to work; and in the next Chapter we give to our readers the tale which
Flora Lyndsay wrote at sea.

CHAPTER VII.

NOAH COTTON.

THE WIDOW GRIMSHAWE AND HER NEIGHBOURS.

On the road to ----, a small seaport town on the east coast of England,
there stood in my young days an old-fashioned, high-gabled, red brick
cottage. The house was divided into two tenements, the doors opening in
the centre of the building. A rustic porch shaded the entrance to the
left from the scorching rays of the sun, and the clouds of dust which
during the summer months rose from the public road in front. Some
person, whose love of nature had survived amidst the crushing cares of
poverty, had twined around the rude trelliswork the deliciously fragrant
branches of the brier-rose, which, during the months of June and July,
loaded the air with its sweet breath.

The door to the right, although unmarked by sign or chequer-board,
opened into a low hedge-tavern of very ill repute, well known through
the