given to hoist the boat in.

Then the gig came alongside. Fitzroy seated in her, with his hands
before his face; the men gloomy and sad.

"GONE! GONE!"

Soon the ship was battling a heavy squall.

At midnight all quiet again, and hove to. Then, at the request of many,
the bell was tolled, and the ship's company mustered bareheaded,
and many a stout seaman in tears, as the last service was read for
Christopher Staines.

CHAPTER XIV.

Rosa fell ill with grief at the hotel, and could not move for some days;
but the moment she was strong enough, she insisted on leaving Plymouth:
like all wounded things, she must drag herself home.

But what a home! How empty it struck, and she heart-sick and desolate.
Now all the familiar places wore a new aspect: the little yard, where he
had so walked and waited, became a temple to her, and she came out
and sat in it, and now first felt to the full how much he had suffered
there--with what fortitude. She crept about the house, and kissed
the chair he had sat in, and every much-used place and thing of the
departed.

Her shallow nature deepened and deepened under this bereavement, of
which, she said to herself, with a shudder, she was the cause. And this
is the course of nature; there is nothing like suffering to enlighten
the giddy brain, widen the narrow mind, improve the trivial heart.

As her regrets were tender and deep, so her vows of repentance
were sincere. Oh, what a wife she would make when he came back! how
thoughtful! how prudent! how loyal! and never have a secret. She who had
once said, "What is the use of your writing? nobody will publish it,"
now collected and perused every written scrap. With simple affection
she even locked up his very waste-paper basket, full of fragments he had
torn, or useless papers he had thrown there, before he went to Plymouth.

In the drawer of his writing-table she found his diary. It was a
thick quarto: it began with their marriage, and ended with his leaving
home--for then he took another volume. This diary became her Bible; she
studied it daily, till her tears hid his lines. The entries were very
miscellaneous, very exact; it was a map of their married life. But
what she studied most was his observations on her own character, so
scientific, yet so kindly; and his scholar-like and wise reflections.
The book was an unconscious picture of a great mind she had hitherto but
glanced at: now she saw it all plain before her; saw it