urbulent ocean, the lowering sky, and falling rain, seemed
emblems of her own sad destiny. Her head sunk upon her husband's
shoulder, as he silently clasped her to his breast; and she could only
answer his anxious inquiries respecting herself and the child with heavy
sobs. For his sake--for the sake of the little one, who was nestled
closely to her throbbing heart--she had consented to leave those shores
for ever. Then why did she repine? Why did that last glance of her
native land fill her heart with such unutterable grief? Visions of the
dim future floated before her, prophetic of all the trials and sorrows
which awaited her in those unknown regions to which they were
journeying. She had obeyed the call of duty, but had not yet tasted the
reward. The sacrifice had not been as yet purified and sublimed, by
long-suffering and self-denial, so as to render it an acceptable
offering on so holy a shrine. She looked up to heaven, and tried to
breathe a prayer; but all was still and dark in her bewildered mind.

The kind voice of her husband at last roused her from the indulgence of
vain regrets. The night was raw and cold; the decks wet and slippery
from the increasing rain; and, with an affectionate pressure of the
hand that went far to reconcile her to her lot, Lyndsay whispered, "This
is no place for you, Flora, and my child. Return, dearest, to the
cabin."

With reluctance Flora obeyed. Beside him she felt neither the cold nor
wet; and, with the greatest repugnance, she re-entered the ladies'
cabin, and, retiring to her berth, enjoyed for several hours a tranquil
and refreshing sleep.

CHAPTER XIX.

MRS. DALTON.

It was midnight when Mrs. Lyndsay awoke. A profound stillness reigned in
the cabin; the invalids had forgotten their sufferings in sleep,--all
but one female figure, who was seated upon the carpeted floor, just in
front of Flora's berth, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, and engaged in
reading a letter. Flora instantly recognised in the watcher the tall,
graceful figure of Mrs. Dalton.

Her mind seemed agitated by some painful recollections; and she sighed
frequently, and several tears stole slowly over her cheeks, as she
replaced the paper carefully in her bosom, and for many minutes appeared
lost in deep and earnest thought. All her accustomed gaiety was gone;
and her fine features wore a sad and regretful expression, far more
touching and interesting than the heartless levity by which they were