ing of two soft, appealing eyes, which gazed full in hers for a
few minutes, as a sweet smile of recognition swept over the countenance;
then Mrs Norton bent down and kissed her, Isa's arms being passed round
her loving nurse's neck, and there for a few moments she clung.

"So much better!" whispered Isa; and then, as her eyes fell upon a
locket-brooch which Mrs Norton was wearing, she asked, in the course of
conversation, whose countenance it contained.

"It was my son's twelve years ago," said Mrs Norton, softly, as she
covered it, she knew not why, with one hand, watching keenly the face
before her as she spoke, and in the change that came over it, she saw
something that for the moment gave her she hardly knew which, pleasure
or pain; for Isa's pale face became gradually suffused with a deep
crimson flush, she shrank away from Mrs Norton as if guilty, her eyes
filled with tears, and then, casting her arms round the mother's neck,
she nestled there, weeping long and hysterically.

No word was spoken; but the mother's thoughts required no further
confirmation. She religiously refrained, though, from speaking, telling
herself that a greater will than hers should be done, that her duty was
rather to check than encourage, even while she tremblingly hoped that a
happier future might be the result.

There was no need for interpretation of Isa Gernon's tears: her heart
spoke for itself; and it was not surprising that he, against whom she
had been warned by a parent--now loving almost to doting, now fiercely
morose--should form the object of her musing thoughts. She had met him
frequently during her walks, at a time, too, when distasteful attentions
were being paid her, and she felt that her heart was being treated as a
piece of merchandise.

There was something winning and frank in Brace Norton that had attracted
her in spite of the chiding she gave her wandering thoughts; and young,
ardent, unused to the ways of the world, she had allowed herself to
dwell upon the face of the young sailor more often than was right for
her peace of mind. Then came the ramble by the marsh, the leaning over
the black pool-side to pluck a blossom, and her narrow escape from poor
Ophelia's fate. Was it, then, strange that when he appeared rushing to
her rescue, and after his many vain struggles, told her, as he promised
to die by her side, how he loved her--told her what her heart had before
whispered--was it, then, strange that this sho