ing
prepared for thee.

As Harry sat watching the bright flames as they went crackling up the
chimney, his sister came and rested her head upon his shoulder, where
they remained, until Sea-flower, reminding him of the lateness of the
hour, was about to retire, when her brother threw his arm about her,
begging her to remain a little, for, said he, "I shall not always have
my dear sister to comfort me."

"To comfort you! Harry, do you, who are always so light-hearted and
joyous, need comforting?"

"Ah, pussy, but you can make the happiest heart happier. I was thinking
of mother; it is a comfort to me that she has you, Sea-flower, to cheer
her lonely hours."

"I think mother is less sad than she has been, for now she is looking
forward to the time when father shall come home; and I think she
flatters herself that she can dissuade you from going to sea, and then
we shall be an unbroken, happy family once more."

Those words! why had they power to make that boy turn pale? Had he not
been screened from the bright glow of the fire-light, the Sea-flower
must have noticed his agitation, as she looked up for the good-night
kiss; he clasped her in his arms for a moment, and then the door closed
upon her gentle form.

The old clock in the church tower had struck eleven, and Harry heard the
cry of the watch, "all's well." He still stood where he had parted with
his sister; as her last footfall upon the stairs died away, and the
house was hushed for the night, the plans which he had matured long days
ago, for this night's execution, laid fast hold of him. Can it be
possible that the boy is about to forget those last words of his
mother? No, they are still sounding in his ear; and his promise, "I will
not forget the prayers of my mother." But does he consider, in the step
which he is about to take, of the arrow which will pierce that mother's
heart? He walks the room with a quick tread; he does reflect, and pities
his mother from the bottom of his heart, praying that the blow may fall
gently; but he has shipped for a voyage in the Nautilus, and this night,
at high tide, she will sail.

Noiselessly he ascends to his room, and taking his clothes from the
drawer, where they had been placed with care, makes them into a bundle,
not forgetting the little bible, which was given him by his mother only
the day before, as a birthday gift. Pausing in the upper hall, he
listens, if he may get one last faint sound from those he holds so d