er usual subdued
and poverty-stricken air. There was nothing in Abigail Lassiter's dress
or manner to indicate the slightest improvement in her worldly
circumstances. She toiled as earnestly, dressed as simply, and lived as
sparingly as ever. But quietly and almost imperceptibly a vast change was
wrought in the aspect of her dwelling. It was carefully repaired and
considerably enlarged, a small piece of pasture land was bought, and then
a handsome Alderney cow made her appearance. A garden of some extent, at
the rear of the cottage, was next laid out, and stocked, and last of all
a commodious spring cart and clever cob were seen on the little
homestead. But comfort there was none. An invisible hand fought against
its inmates. Their career of success was closed. A curse and not a
blessing was henceforth to track them. On a sudden the husband, Mark
Lassiter, was betrayed in one of his smuggling expeditions, encountered
the coast-guard where he least expected them, was fired at, captured, and
died in jail of his wounds. The eldest son--'Black Ben,' the
pugilist--killed his man, was accused of foul play, and compelled to fly
the country. Robin, second mate of a merchant vessel then lying in Hull
Docks, still remained to her, and him she hastily summoned home for
counsel. Vain precaution! A final separation had already taken place
between them. While wondering at his tardy movements, a brief unfeeling
letter apprised her that, 'returning to his ship at midnight decidedly
the worse for liquor,' Robin Lassiter had missed his footing on the
narrow plank connecting the vessel with the shore, fallen into deep
water, and had sunk to rise no more.

"These successive bereavements paralyzed her. For the first time the idea
seems to have presented itself, that it was possible adversity might
overwhelm her. She confined herself rigidly to her home; said that _the
moan of the sea wearied and worried her_, and blocked up every window
which _looked upon the ocean!_ For hours she would sit, abstractedly, in
silence. Then, wringing her hands, would wake up with a wistful cry, and
repeat--'Wrong never comes right! Wrong never comes right!'

"Much as I knew she hated religion, its ministers, its sanctuary, and
every object which, by possibility, could remind her that _there was a
coming future_, I yet felt it my duty to make another and a third attempt
at an interview. She received me ungraciously enough, but not insolently.
Her fair, soft,