ose head is a weeping willow, upon the broad trunk of which is wrought
in letters of pearl,--"The Sea-flower awaits for thee." With a tear you
turn away, with the resolve in your heart that you will henceforth so
live, as that when this mortal life is ended, you may "attain
everlasting joy and felicity, through Jesus Christ, our Lord."

You will seek the fireside of the widow Grosvenor, where from a mother's
lips, you will be assured of the blessings which accompany a dutiful
child. That fireside is not desolate, for the members of the household
have been led to say,--"Thy will, O Lord, not mine, be done." Mrs.
Grosvenor, though somewhat advanced in life, still retains that peculiar
freshness of her earlier days; and as she proudly glances upon the young
man by her side, calling him "my son," you can hardly recognize in his
athletic form the little sailor-boy of other days; yet it is none other,
although he has arrived to the dignity of captain, and as Sampson
prophesied, a smarter man never sailed the ocean. But who is this
witching beauty at his side, who would fain impress you with a belief
that that mischief which will not remain concealed for the briefest
period, is not her entire composition? Do you not mistrust? who other
than Miss Winnie Santon? she who having tired of the gallants of the
wild West, or rather of their numbers, came to the wise conclusion that
a city life was designed for such as she; she the coquettish heiress,
who once stood very much in doubt as to the state of civilization among
these "poor fishermen."

Yes, it is our Winnie, and she is now the wife of Capt. Harry
Grosvenor. And is she happy in this her choice? Ask her if she would
exchange her brave husband for one of those superfine niceties, who
suing for favor at her feet, had at the same time lined their vows of
love and constancy with the yellow dust, which had they known the strong
chest to have been at their backs, while in this humble posture, it were
uncertain to which might have been made an apology,--the fair lady or
her dowry.

But what is the cause of that little commotion among sundry flowered
blankets, juvenile counterpanes, etc., etc., which you have but this
moment discovered in a neighboring niche? Is it old Nep who has
ensconced himself in this dainty little nest? No, for you left him
sleeping under the shade of the weeping willow. Surely, those seven
kits, with fourteen blue eyes, have not lived to this green old age! A