“I don’t know how I got back to Mrs. Arthur. I never knew. Or, whether it was from me she learned the terrible tidings of the death of her sons. I fell into a brain fever, and when I recovered my senses, Mrs. Arthur had been in her grave for some weeks.

“In thinking over the events of that fearful night, the recollection which pained me most was, that David’s last thought had been for his mother,—that during his death-struggle, she was dearer to him than me. It haunted me for years. At times it haunts me still. Whenever the wind blows a gale, and the moon shines clear and cold, I fancy I can see him standing below my window, in his dripping garments, and that sad pale face turned towards his mother’s casement; and I hear him call out, in the rich, mellow voice I loved so well,—‘Mother, dearest mother, I have come home to you. Open the door and let me in!’”

“It was a dream, Nurse,” said Flora.

“But supposing, Mrs. Lyndsay, that it was a dream. Is it less strange that such a dream should occur at the very moment, perhaps, that he was drowned; and that his mother should fancy she heard him speak as well as I?”

“True,” said Flora, “the mystery remains the same, and, for my own part, I never could get rid of a startling reality; because some people choose to call it a mere coincidence. My faith embraces the spirit of the fact, and disclaims the coincidence, though after all, the coincidence is the best proof of the fact.”

“This event,” continued Nurse, “cast a shadow over my life, which no after sunshine ever dispelled. I never loved again, and gave up all thoughts of getting married from that hour. Perhaps I was wrong, for I refused several worthy men, who would have given me a comfortable home; and I should not now, at my time of life, have to go out nursing, or be dependent upon a cross brother, for the shelter of a roof. If you will take me to Canada with you, I only ask in return a home in my old age.”

Flora was delighted with the project, but on writing about it to her husband, she found him unwilling to take out a feeble old woman, who was very likely to die on the voyage; and Flora, with reluctance, declined the good woman’s offer.

It happened very unfortunately for Flora, that her mother had in her employment a girl, whose pretty feminine face and easy pliable manners, had rendered her a great favourite in the family. Whenever Flora visited the Hall, Hannah had taken charge of the baby, on whom she lavished the most endearing epithets and caresses.

This girl had formed an imprudent intimacy with a farm servant in the neighbourhood, which had ended in her seduction. Her situation rendered marriage a matter of necessity. In this arrangement of the matter, it required both parties should agree; and the man, who doubtless knew more of the girl’s real character than her benevolent mistress, flatly refused to make her his wife. Hannah, in an agony of rage and contrition, had confided her situation to her mistress; and implored her not to turn her from her doors, or she would end her misery in self-destruction.

“She had no home,” she said, “in the wide world—and she dared not return to her aunt, who was the only friend she had; and who, under existing circumstances, she well knew, would never afford her the shelter of her roof.”

Simple as this girl appeared, she knew well how to act her part; and so won upon the compassion of Mrs. W——, that she was determined, if possible, to save her from ruin. Finding that Mrs. Lyndsay had failed in obtaining a servant, she applied to her on Hannah’s behalf, and requested, as a favour, that she would take the forlorn creature with her to Canada.

Flora at first rejected the proposal in disgust: in spite of Mrs. W——’s high recommendation, there was something about the woman she did not like; and much as she was inclined to pity her, she could not reconcile herself to the idea of making her the companion of her voyage. She could not convince herself that Hannah was worthy of the sympathy manifested on her behalf. A certain fawning, servility of manner, led her to imagine that she was deceitful; and she was reluctant to entail upon herself the trouble and responsibility which must arise from her situation, and the scandal it might involve. But her objections were borne down by Mrs. W——’s earnest entreaties, to save, if possible, a fellow creature from ruin.

The false notions formed by most persons in England of the state of society in Canada, made Mrs. W—— reject, as mere bugbears, all Flora’s fears as to the future consequences which might arise from her taking such a hazardous step. What had she to fear from ill-natured gossip in a barbarous country, so thinly peopled, that settlers seldom resided within a day’s journey of each other. If the girl was wise enough to keep her own secret, who would take the trouble to find it out? Children were a blessing in such a wilderness; and Hannah’s child, brought up in the family, would be very little additional expense and trouble, and might prove a most attached and grateful servant, forming a lasting tie of mutual benefit between the mother and her benefactress. The mother was an excellent worker, and, until this misfortune happened, a good and faithful girl. She was weak, to be sure; but then (what a fatal mistake) the more easily managed. Mrs. W——was certain that Flora would find her a perfect treasure.

All this sounded very plausible in theory, and savoured of romance. Flora found it in the end a dismal reality. She consented to receive the girl as her servant, who was overjoyed at the change in her prospects; declaring that she never could do enough for Mrs. Lyndsay, for snatching her from a life of disgrace and infamy. And so little Josey was provided with a nurse, and Flora with a servant.

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CHAPTER XII.
THE LAST HOURS AT HOME.

“Let Josey stay with me, Flora,” said she, as she covered its dimpled hands with kisses. “Let me not lose you both in one day.”

“What! part with my child—my only child! Dearest mother, it is impossible to grant your request. Whatever our future fortunes may be, she must share them with us. I could not bear up against the trials which await me with a divided heart.”

“Consider the advantage it would be to the child.”

“In the loss of both her parents?”

“In her exemption from hardship, and the education she would receive.”

“I grant all that; yet Nature points out, that the interests of a child cannot safely be divided from those of its parents.”

“You argue selfishly, Flora. You well know the child would be much better off with me.”

“I speak from my heart—the heart of a mother, which cannot, without it belongs to a monster, plead against the welfare of its child. I know how dearly you love her—how painful it is for you to give her up; and that she would possess with you those comforts which, for her sake, we are about to resign. But, if we leave her behind, we part with her ever. She is too young to remember us; and, without knowing us, how could she love us?”

“She would be taught to love you.”

“Her love would be of a very indefinite character. She would be told that she had a father and mother in a distant land, and be taught to mention us daily in her prayers. But where would be the faith, the endearing confidence, the holy love, with which a child, brought up under the parental roof, regards the authors of its being. The love which falls like dew from heaven upon the weary heart, which forms a balm for every sorrow, a solace for every care,—without its refreshing influence, what would the wealth of the world be to us?”

Flora’s heart swelled, and her eyes filled with tears. The eloquence of an angel at that moment would have failed in persuading her to part with her child.

Never did these painful feelings press more heavily on Flora’s mind, than when all was done in the way of preparation; when her work was all finished, her trunks all packed, her little bills in the town all paid, her faithful domestics discharged, and nothing remained of active employment to hinder her from perpetually brooding over the sad prospect before her.

She went to spend a last day at the old Hall, to bid farewell to the old familiar haunts, endeared to her from childhood.

“Flora, you must keep up your spirits,” said her mother, kissing her tenderly; “nor let this parting weigh too heavily upon your heart. We shall all meet again.”

“In heaven, I hope, Mother.”

“Yes, and on earth.”

“Oh, no; it is useless to hope for that. No, never again on earth.”

“Always hope for the best, Flora; it is my plan. I have found it true wisdom. Put on your bonnet, and take a ramble through the garden and meadows; it will refresh you after so many harassing thoughts. Your favourite trees are in full leaf, the hawthorn hedges in blossom, and the nightingales sing every evening in the wood-lane. You cannot feel miserable among such sights and sounds of beauty in this lovely month of May, or you are not the same Flora I ever knew you.”

“Ah, just the same faulty, impulsive, enthusiastic creature I ever was, dear mother. No change of circumstances will, I fear, change my nature; and the sight of these dear old haunts will only deepen the regret I feel at bidding them adieu.”

Flora put on her bonnet, and went forth to take a last look of home.

The Hall was an old-fashioned house, large, rambling, picturesque, and cold. It had been built in the first year of good Queen Bess. The back part of the mansion appeared to have belonged to a period still more remote. The building was surrounded by fine gardens, and lawn-like meadows, and stood sheltered within a grove of noble old trees. It was beneath the shade of these trees, and reposing upon the velvet-like sward at their feet, that Flora had first indulged in those delicious reveries—those lovely, ideal visions of beauty and perfection—which cover with a tissue of morning beams all the rugged highways of life. Silent bosom friends were those dear old trees! Every noble sentiment of her soul,—every fault that threw its baneful shadow on the sunlight of her mind,—had been fostered, or grown upon her, in those pastoral solitudes. Those trees had witnessed a thousand bursts of passionate eloquence,—a thousand gushes of bitter, heart-humbling tears. To them had been revealed all the joys and sorrows, the hopes and fears, which she could not confide to the sneering and unsympathising of her own sex. The solemn druidical groves were not more holy to their imaginative and mysterious worshippers, than were those old oaks to the young Flora.

Now the balmy breath of spring, as it gently heaved the tender green masses of brilliant foliage, seemed to utter a voice of thrilling lamentation,—a sad, soul-touching farewell.

“Home of my childhood! must I see you no more?” sobbed Flora. “Are you to become to-morrow a vision of the past? O that the glory of spring was not upon the earth! that I had to leave you amid winter’s chilling gloom, and not in this lovely, blushing month of May! The emerald green of these meadows—the gay flush of these bright blossoms—the joyous song of these glad birds—breaks my heart!”

And the poor emigrant sank down amid the green grass, and, burying her face among the fragrant daisies, imprinted a passionate kiss upon the sod, which was never, in time or eternity, to form a resting-place for her again.

But a beam is in the dark cloud even for thee, poor Flora; thou heart-sick lover of nature. Time will reconcile thee to the change which now appears so dreadful. The human flowers destined to spring around thy hut in that far off wilderness, will gladden thy bosom in the strange land to which thy course now tends; and the image of God, in his glorious creation, will smile upon thee as graciously in the woods of Canada, as it now does, in thy English Paradise. Yes, the hour will come, when you shall exclaim with fervour,

“Thank God, I am the denizen of a free land; a land of beauty and progression. A land unpolluted by the groans of starving millions. A land which opens her fostering arms to receive and restore to his long lost birthright, the trampled and abused child of poverty: to bid him stand up a free inheritor of a free soil, who so long laboured for a scanty pittance of bread, as an ignorant and degraded slave, in the country to which you now cling with such passionate fondness, and leave with such heart-breaking regret.”

When Flora returned from an extensive ramble through all her favourite walks, she was agreeably surprised to find her husband conversing with Mrs. W—— in the parlour. The unexpected sight of her husband, who had returned to cheer her some days sooner than the one he had named in his letters, soon restored Flora’s spirits, and the sorrows of the future were forgotten in the joy of the present.

Lyndsay had a thousand little incidents and anecdotes to relate of his visit to the great metropolis; to which Flora was an eager and delighted listener. He told her that he had satisfactorily arranged all his pecuniary matters; and without sacrificing his half-pay, was able to take out about three hundred pounds sterling, which he thought, prudently managed, would enable him to make a tolerably comfortable settlement in Canada,—particularly, as he would not be obliged to purchase a farm, being entitled to a grant of four hundred acres of wild land.

He had engaged a passage in a fine vessel that was to sail from Leith, at the latter end of the week.

“I found, that in going from Scotland,” said Lyndsay, “we could be as well accommodated for nearly half price; and it would give you the opportunity of seeing Edinburgh, and me the melancholy satisfaction of taking a last look at the land of my birth.”

“One of the London steamers will call for us to-morrow morning, on her way to Scotland, and I must hire a boat to-night, and get our luggage prepared for a start. A short notice, dear Flora, to a sad but inevitable necessity, I thought better for a person of your temperament, than a long and tedious anticipation of evil. Now all is prepared for the voyage, delay is not only useless, but dangerous. So cheer up, darling, and be as happy and cheerful as you can. Let us spend the last night at home pleasantly together.” He kissed Flora so affectionately, as he ceased speaking, that she not only promised obedience, but contrived to smile through her tears.

It was necessary for them to return instantly to the cottage, and Flora took leave of her mother, with a full heart. We will not dwell on such partings; they

as the poet has truly described them, making the snows of age descend upon the rose crowned brow of youth.

Sorrowfully Flora returned to her pretty little cottage, which presented a scene of bustle and confusion baffling description. Everything was out of place and turned upside down. Corded trunks and packages filled up the passages and doorways; and formed stumbling blocks for kind friends and curious neighbours, who crowded the house. Strange dogs forced their way in after their masters, and fought and yelped in undisturbed pugnacity. The baby cried, and no one was at leisure to pacify her, and a cheerless and uncomfortable spirit filled the once peaceful and happy home.

Old Captain Kitson was in his glory; hurrying here and there, ordering, superintending, and assisting the general confusion, without in the least degree helping on the work. He had taken upon himself the charge of hiring the boat which was to convey the emigrants on board the steamer; and he stood chaffering on the lawn for a couple of hours with the sailors, to whom she belonged, to induce them to take a shilling less than the sum proposed.

Tired with the altercation, and sorry for the honest tars, Lyndsay told the master of the boat to yield to the old Captain’s terms, and he would make up the difference. The sailor answered with a knowing wink, and appeared reluctantly to consent to old Kitson’s wishes.

“There, Mrs. Lyndsay, my dear, I told you these fellows would come to my terms rather than lose a good customer,” cried the old man, rubbing his hands together in an ecstasy of self-gratulation. “Leave me to make a bargain; the rogues cannot cheat me with their damned impositions. The Leaftenant is too soft with these chaps; I’m an old sailor—they can’t come over me. I have made them take one pound for the use of their craft, instead of one and twenty shillings. ‘Take care of the pence,’ my dear, ‘and the pounds will take care of themselves.’ I found that out, long before poor Richard marked it down in his log.”

Then sidling up to Flora, and putting his long nose into her face, he whispered in her ear,—

“Ah, I hope it will be fine,” said Flora, looking anxiously up at the troubled sky; “it is so miserable to begin a long journey in the rain. Perhaps it will pass off during the night in a thunder-shower.”

The old man whistled, shut one eye, and looked knowingly at the sea with the other.

“Women know about as much of the weather as your nurse does of handling a rope. Whew! but there’s a gale coming; I’ll down to the beach, and tell the lads to haul up the boats, and make all snug before it bursts,” and away toddled the old man, full of the importance of his mission.

It was the last night at home—the last social meeting of kindred friends on this side the grave. Flora tried to appear cheerful, but the forced smile upon the tutored lips, rendered doubly painful the tears kept back in the swollen eyes; the vain effort of the sorrowful in heart to be gay. Alas! for the warm hearts, the generous friendships, the kindly greetings of dear Old England, when would they be hers again? Flora’s friends at length took leave, and she was left with her husband alone.

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CHAPTER XIII.
THE DEPARTURE.

“Leaftenant Lyndsay—Leaftenant Lyndsay!” shouted the Captain, in a voice like a speaking-trumpet—“wind and tide wait for no man. Up, up, and be doing.”

“Ay, ay,” responded Lyndsay, rubbing his eyes, and going to the window.

“See what a storm the night has been brewing for you,” continued old Kitson. “It blows great guns, and there’s rain enough to float Noah’s ark. Waters is here, and wants to see you. He says that his small craft won’t live in a sea like this. You’ll have to put off your voyage till the steamer takes her next trip.”

“That’s bad,” said Lyndsay, hurrying on his clothes, and joining the old sailor on the lawn. “Is there any chance, Kitson, of this holding up?”

“None. This is paying us off for three weeks fine weather, and may last for several days—at all events, till night. The steamer will be rattling down in an hour, with the wind and tide in her favour. Were you once on board, Leaftenant, you might snap your fingers at this capful of wind.”

“We must make up our minds to lose our places,” said Lyndsay, in a tone of deep vexation.

“Humph! Now, Leaftenant Lyndsay, that’s a thing I never do. I always take my chance. I would rather lose my place in a boat, or a coach, than lose my money. But young fellows like you never learn wisdom. Experience is all thrown away upon you. But as we can’t remedy the evil now, we had better step in and get a morsel of breakfast. This raw air makes one hungry. The wind may lull by that time.” Then gazing at the sky with one of his keen orbs, while he shaded with his hand the other, he continued—“It rains too hard for it to blow long at this rate; and the season of the year is all in your favour. Go in—go in, and get something to eat, and we will settle over your wife’s good coffee what is best to be done.”

Lyndsay thought with the Captain, that the storm would abate, and he returned to the anxious Flora, to report the aspect of things without.

“It is a bad omen,” said Flora, pouring out the coffee. “If we may judge of the future by the present—it looks dark enough.”

“Don’t provoke me into anger, Flora, by talking in such a childish manner, and placing reliance upon an exploded superstition. Women are so fond of prognosticating evil, that I believe they are disappointed if it does not happen as they say.”

“Well, reason may find fault with us if she will,” said Flora; “but we are all more or less influenced by these mysterious presentiments; and suffer trifling circumstances to give a colouring for good or evil to the passing hour. My dear, cross philosopher, hand me the toast.”

Flora’s defence of her favourite theory was interrupted by the arrival of two very dear friends, who had come from a distance, through the storm, to bid her good-bye.

Mr. Hawke, the elder of the twain, was an author of considerable celebrity in his native county, and a most kind and excellent man. He brought with him his second son, a fine lad of twelve years of age, to place under Lyndsay’s charge. James Hawke had taken a fancy to settle in Canada, and a friend of the family, who was located in the Backwoods of that far region, had written to his father, that he would take the lad, and initiate him in the mysteries of the axe, if he could find a person to bring him over. Lyndsay had promised to do this, and the boy, who had that morning parted with his mother and little brothers and sisters, for the first time in his life, in spite of the elastic spirits of youth, looked sad and dejected.

Mr. Hawke’s companion was a young Quaker, who had known Flora from a girl, and had always expressed the greatest interest in her welfare.

Adam Mansel was a handsome, talented man, whose joyous disposition, and mirthful humour, could scarcely be trammelled down by the severe conventional rules of the Society to which he belonged. Adam’s exquisite taste for music, and his great admiration for horses and dogs, savoured rather of the camp of the enemy. But his love for these forbidden carnalities was always kept within bounds, and only known to a few very particular friends.

“Friend Flora,” he said, taking her hand, and giving it a most hearty and cordial shake, “this is a sad day to those who have known thee long, and loved thee well; and a foul day for the commencement of such an important journey. Bad beginnings, they say, make bright endings; so there is hope for thee yet in the stormy cloud.”

“According to your theory, Mansel,” said Mr. Hawke, “Mrs. Lyndsay must have prayed for a very fine day.”

“Dost thee call this a holiday?” returned the Quaker, with a twinkle of quiet humour in his bright brown eyes.

Mr. Hawke suppressed a sigh, and his glance again fell on his boy; and, hurrying to the window, he mechanically drew his hand across his eyes.

Here the old Captain came bustling in, full of importance, chuckling, rubbing his hands, and shaking his dripping fearnaught, with an air of great satisfaction.

“You will not be disappointed, my dear,” addressing himself to Mrs. Lyndsay. “The wind has fallen off a bit; and, though the sea is too rough for the small craft, Palmer, the captain of the pilot-boat, has been with me; and, for the consideration of two pounds (forty shillings),—a large sum of money, by-the-bye,—I will try and beat him down to thirty,—he says he will launch the great boat, and man her with twelve stout young fellows, who will take you, bag and baggage, on board the steamer, though the gale were blowing twice as stiff. You have no more to fear in that fine boat, than you have sitting at your ease in that arm-chair. So make up your mind, my dear; for you have no time to lose.”

Flora looked anxiously from her husband to her child, and then at the black, pouring sky, and the raging waters.

“There is no danger, Flora,” said Lyndsay. “These fine boats can live in almost any sea. But the rain will make it very uncomfortable for you and the child.”

“The discomfort will only last a few minutes, Mrs. Lyndsay,” said old Kitson. “Those chaps will put you on board before you can say Jack Robinson.”

“It is better to bear a ducking than lose our passage in the Chieftain,” said Flora. “There cannot be much to apprehend from the violence of the storm, or twelve men would never risk their lives for the value of forty shillings. Our trunks are all in the boat-house, our servants discharged, and our friends gone; we have no longer a home, and I am impatient to commence our voyage.”

“You are right, Flora. Dress yourself and the child, and I will engage the boat immediately.” And away bounded Lyndsay to make their final arrangements, and see the luggage safely stowed away in the pilot-boat.

Captain Kitson seated himself at the table, and began discussing a beefsteak with all the earnestness of a hungry man. From time to time, as his appetite began to slacken, he addressed a word of comfort or encouragement to Mrs. Lyndsay, who was busy wrapping up the baby for her perilous voyage.

“That’s right, my dear. Take care of the young one; ’tis the most troublesome piece of lumber you have with you. A child and a cat are two things which never ought to come on board a ship. But take courage, my dear. Be like our brave Nelson; never look behind you after entering upon difficulties; it only makes bad worse, and does no manner of good. You will encounter rougher gales than this before you have crossed the Atlantic.”

“I hope that we shall not have to wait long for the steamer,” said Flora. “I dread this drenching rain for the poor babe, far more than the stormy sea.”

“Wait,” responded the old man, “the steamer will be rattling down in no time; it is within an hour of her usual time. But Mrs. Lyndsay, my dear,”—hastily pushing from him his empty plate, and speaking with his mouth full—“I have one word to say to you in private, before you go.”

Flora followed the gallant captain into the kitchen, marvelling in her own mind what this private communication could be. The old man shut the door carefully behind him; then said, in a mysterious whisper—“The old clothes; do you remember what I said to you last night?”

Taken by surprise, Flora looked down, coloured, and hesitated; she was afraid of wounding his feelings. Simple woman! the man was without delicacy, and had no feelings to wound.

“There is a bundle of things, Captain Kitson,” she faltered out at last, “in the press in my bedroom, for Mr. Charles—coats, trowsers, and other things. I was ashamed to mention to you such trifles.”

“Never mind—never mind, my dear; I am past blushing at my time of life; and reelly—(he always called it reelly)—I am much obliged to you.”

After a pause, in which both looked supremely foolish, the old man continued—“There was a china cup and two plates—pity to spoil the set—that your careless maid broke the other day in the washhouse. Did Mrs. K. mention them to you, my dear?”

“Yes, sir, and they are paid for,” said Flora, turning with disgust from the sordid old man. “Have you anything else to communicate?”

“All right,” said the Captain. “Here is your husband looking for you. The boat is ready.”

“Flora, we only wait for you,” said Lyndsay. Flora placed the precious babe in her father’s arms, and they descended the steep flight of steps that led from the cliff to the beach.

In spite of the inclemency of the weather a crowd of old and young had assembled on the beach to witness their embarcation, and bid them farewell.

The hearty “God bless you! God grant you a prosperous voyage, and a better home than the one you leave, on the other side of the Atlantic!” burst from the lips of many an honest tar; and brought the tears into Flora’s eyes, as the sailors crowded round the emigrants, to shake hands with them before they stepped into the noble boat that lay rocking in the surf.

Precious to Flora and Lyndsay were the pressure of those hard rough hands. They expressed the honest sympathy felt, by a true-hearted set of poor men, in their present situation and future welfare.

“You are not going without one parting word with me!” cried Mary Parnell, springing down the steep bank of stones, against which thundered the tremendous surf. The wind had blown her straw bonnet back upon her shoulders, and scattered her fair hair in beautiful confusion round her lovely face.

The weeping, agitated girl was alternately clasped in the arms of Lyndsay and his wife.

“Why did you expose yourself, dear Mary, to weather like this?”

“Don’t talk of weather,” sobbed Mary; “I only know that we must part. Do you begrudge me the last look? Good-bye! God bless you both!”

Before Flora could speak another word, she was caught up in the arms of a stout seaman, who safely deposited both the mother and her child in the boat. Lyndsay, Mr. Hawke, his son, Adam Mansel, and lastly Hannah, followed. Three cheers arose from the sailors on the beach. The gallant boat dashed through the surf, and was soon bounding over the giant billows.

Mr. Hawke and friend Adam had never been on the sea before, but they determined not to bid adieu to the emigrants until they saw them safe on board the steamer.

“I will never take a last look of the dear home in which I have passed so many happy hours,” said Flora, resolutely turning her back to the shore. “I cannot yet realize the thought that I am never to see it again.”

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CHAPTER XIV.
AN OPEN BOAT AT SEA.

The gentlemen made an effort to be lively. The conversation turned on the conduct of women under trying circumstances—the courage and constancy they had shown in situations of great peril—animating the men to fresh exertions by their patient endurance of suffering and privation. Mr. Hawke said, “That all travellers had agreed in their observations upon the conduct of females to strangers; and that, when travelling, they had never had occasion to complain of the women.”

At this speech, Lyndsay, who began to feel all the horrible nausea of sea-sickness, raised his head from between his hands, and replied with a smile, “That it was the very reverse with women, for, when they travelled, they had most reason to complain of the men.”

The effects of the stormy weather soon became very apparent among the passengers in the pilot-boat—sickness laid its leaden grasp upon all the fresh-water sailors. Even Lyndsay, a hardy Islander, and used to boats and boating all his life, yielded passively to the attacks of the relentless fiend of the salt waters, with rigid features, and a face pale as the faces of the dead. He sat with his head bowed between his hands, as motionless as if he had suddenly been frozen into stone. Flora often lifted the cape of the cloak which partially concealed his face, to ascertain that he was still alive.

The anxiety she felt in endeavouring to protect her infant from the pouring rain, perhaps acted as an antidote to this distressing malady, for, though only just out of a sick bed, she did not feel the least qualmish.

Hannah, the servant, lay stretched at the bottom of the boat, her head supported by the ballast-bags, in a state too miserable to describe; while James Hawke, the lad who was to accompany them in their long voyage, had sunk into a state of happy unconsciousness, after having vainly wished, for the hundredth time, that he was safe on shore, scampering over the village green with his twelve brothers and sisters, and not tempting the angry main in an open boat, with the windows of heaven discharging waters enough upon his defenceless head to drown him—without speaking of the big waves that every moment burst into the boat, giving him a salt bath upon a gigantic scale.

After an hour’s hard rowing, the King William (for so their boat was called), cast anchor in the roadstead, distant about eight miles from the town, and lay to, waiting for the coming-up of the steamer.

Hours passed away,—the day wore slowly onward,—but still the vessel they expected did not appear. The storm, which had lulled till noon, increased in violence, until it blew “great guns,” to use the sailors’ nautical phraseology; and signs of uneasiness began to be manifested by the hardy crew of the pilot-boat.

“Some accident must have befallen the steamer,” said Palmer, the captain of the boat, to Craigie, a fine, handsome young seaman, as he handed him the bucket to bale the water from their vessel. “I don’t like this; I’ll be —— if I do! If the wind increases, and remains in the present quarter, a pretty kettle of fish it will make of us. We may be thankful if we escape with our lives.”

“Is there any danger?” demanded Flora eagerly, as she clasped her wet, cold baby closer to her breast. The child had been crying piteously for the last hour.

“Yes, Madam,” he replied respectfully; “we have been in considerable danger all day. The wind is increasing with the coming in of the tide; and I see no prospect of its clearing up. As the night comes on, do ye see, and if we do not fall in with the Soho, we shall have to haul up the anchor, and run before the gale; and, with all my knowledge of the coast, we may be driven ashore, and the boat swamped in the surf.”

Flora sighed, and wished herself safe at home, in her dear, snug, little parlour; the baby asleep in the cradle, and Lyndsay reading aloud to her as she worked, or playing on his flute.

The rain again burst down in torrents,—the thunder roared over their heads,—and the black, lurid sky, looked as if it contained a second deluge. Flora shivered with cold and exhaustion, and bent more closely over the child, to protect her as much as possible, by the exposure of her own person, from the drenching rain and spray.

“Ah! this is sad work for women and children!” said the honest tar, drawing a large tarpaulin over the mother and child. Blinded and drenched by the pelting of the pitiless shower, Flora crouched down in the bottom of the boat, in patient endurance of what might befal. The wind blew piercingly cold; and the spray of the huge billows which burst continually over them, enveloped the small craft in a feathery cloud, effectually concealing from her weary passengers the black waste of raging waters which roared around and beneath them.

The poor infant was starving with hunger, and all Flora’s efforts to keep it quiet proved unavailing. The gentlemen were as sick and helpless as the baby, and nothing could well increase their wretchedness. They had now been ten hours at sea; and, not expecting the least detention from the non-arrival of the steamer, nothing in the way of refreshment had formed any part of their luggage. Those who had escaped the horrors of sea-sickness, of which Flora was one, were suffering from thirst, while the keen air had sharpened their appetites to a ravenous degree.

In spite of their forlorn situation, Flora could not help being amused by the gay, careless manner, in which the crew of the boat contended with these difficulties.

“Well, I’ll be blowed if I arn’t hungry!” cried Craigie, as he stood up in the boat, with his arms folded, and his nor’wester pulled over his eyes, to ward off the drenching rain. “Nothin’ would come amiss to me now, in the way of prog. I could digest a bit of the shark that swallowed Jonah, or pick a rib of the old prophet himself, without making a wry face.”

“I wonder which would prove the tougher morsel of the two,” said Mr. Hawke, raising his languid head from the bench before him, and whose love of fun overcame the deadly pangs of sea-sickness.

“A dish of good beefsteaks from the Crown Inn would be worth them both, friend,” said Adam Mansel, who, getting better of the sea-sickness, like Craigie, began to feel the pangs of hunger.

“You may keep the dish, mister,” returned Craigie, laughing; “give me the grub.”

“Ah, how bitter!” groaned James Hawke, raising himself up from the furled sail which had formed his bed, and yielding to the terrible nausea that oppressed him.

“Ay, ay, my lad,” said an ancient mariner, on whose tanned face time and exposure to sun and storm had traced a thousand hieroglyphics; “nothing’s sweet that’s so contrary to natur’. Among the bitter things of life, there’s scarcely a worse than the one that now troubles you. Sick at sea,—well on shore; so there’s comfort for you!”

“Cold comfort,” sighed the boy, as he again fell prostrate on the wet sail. A huge billow broke over the side of the boat, and deluged him with brine. He did not heed it, having again relapsed into his former insensible state.

“The bucket aft,” shouted Palmer. “It’s wanted to bale the boat.”

“The bucket’s engaged,” said Craigie, bowing with ludicrous politeness, to poor Hannah, whose head he was supporting, “I must first attend to the lady.”

The patience of the handsome young Quaker, under existing difficulties, was highly amusing. He bore the infliction of the prevailing malady with such a benign air of resignation, that it was quite edifying. Wiping the salt water from his face with a pocket-handkerchief of snowy whiteness, he exclaimed, turning to Flora, who was sitting at his feet with Josey in her arms, “Friend Flora, this sea-sickness is an evil emetic. It tries a man’s temper, and makes him guilty of the crime of wishing himself at the bottom of the sea.”

“You smooth-faced, unshaved fellows, have him always at your elbow,” said Craigie. “He teaches you long prayers—us big oaths. I wonder which cargo is the best to take to heaven.”

“Two blacks don’t make a white, friend,” said Adam, good-naturedly. “Blasphemy, or hypocrisy either, is sufficient to sink the ship.”

Night was now fast closing over the storm-tossed voyagers. The boat was half full of water, which flowed over Flora’s lap, and she began to feel very apprehensive for the safety of her child. At this moment, a large retriever dog which belonged to the captain of the boat, crept into her lap; and she joyfully placed the baby upon his shaggy back, and the warmth of the animal seemed greatly to revive the poor shivering Josey.

It was nearly dark when Palmer roused Lyndsay from his stupor, and suggested the propriety of their return to ——. “You see, Sir,” he said, “I am quite willing to wait for the arrival of the Soho, but something must have gone wrong with her, or she would have been down before this. The crew of the boat have been now ten hours exposed to the storm, without a morsel of food, and if the wind should change, we should have to run in for the Port of Y——, twenty miles distant from this. Under existing circumstances, I think it advisable to return.”

“By all means,” said Lyndsay. “This might have been done three hours ago;” and the next minute, to Flora’s inexpressible joy, the anchor was hoisted, and the gallant boat once more careering over the mighty billows.

Her face was once more turned towards that dear home, to which she had bidden adieu in the morning; as she then imagined, for ever—“England”—she cried, stretching her arms towards the dusky shore. “Dear England! The winds and waves forbid our leaving you. Welcome,—oh, welcome, once more.”

As they neared the beach, the stormy clouds parted in rifted masses; and the deep blue heavens, studded here and there with a pale star, gleamed lovingly down upon them; the rain ceased its pitiless pelting, the very elements seemed to smile upon their return.

The pilot boat had been reported during the day as lost, and the beach was crowded with anxious men and women to hail its return. The wives and children of her crew pressed forward to meet them with joyful acclamations; and Flora’s depressed spirits rose with the excitement of the scene.

“Hold fast your baby, Mrs. Lyndsay, while the boat clears the surf,” cried Palmer. “I’ll warrant that you both get a fresh ducking.”

As he spoke, the noble boat cut like an arrow through the line of formidable breakers which thundered on the beach; the foam flew in feathery volumes high above their heads, drenching them with a misty shower; the keel grated upon the shingles, and a strong arm lifted Flora once more upon her native land.

Benumbed and cramped with their long immersion in salt water, her limbs had lost the power of motion, and Lyndsay and old Kitson carried her between them up the steps which led from the beach to the top of the cliffs, and deposited her safely on the sofa in the little parlour of her deserted home.

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CHAPTER XV.
ONCE MORE AT HOME.

“Welcome once more to old England! dear Flora,” said Mary Parnell, kissing the cold, wet cheek of her friend. “When I said that we should meet again, I did not think that it would be so soon. Thank God, you are all safe! For many hours it was believed that the boat had been swamped in the gale, and that you were all lost. You may imagine the distress of your mother and sisters, and the anguish the report occasioned us all, and how we rejoiced when Waters ran up with the blessed news that the boat was returning, and that her crew was safe. But come up-stairs, my Flora, and change these dripping clothes. There is a nice fire in your bedroom, and I have provided everything necessary for your comfort.”

“Don’t talk of her changing her clothes, Miss Parnell,” said the old Captain, bustling in. “Undress and put her to bed immediately, between hot blankets, and I will make her a good stiff glass of brandy-and-water, to drive the cold out of her, or she may fall into a sickness which no doctor can cure. Cut your yarn short, I say, or I shall have to take charge of her myself.”

“Captain Kitson is right, Mary,” said Lyndsay, who just then entered from superintending the removal of his luggage from the boat, accompanied by a group of friends, all anxious to congratulate Mrs. Lyndsay on her providential escape. “My dear Flora, you must be a good girl, and go instantly to bed.”

“It will be so dull”—and Flora glanced at the group of friendly faces, beaming with affection and kindness; “I should enjoy myself here so much. Now, John, do not send me away to bed, and keep all the fun to yourself—the bright, cheery fire and all the good things.”

Lyndsay looked grave, and whispered something in her ear about the baby, and the madness of risking a bad cold. Whatever was the exact import of his communication, it had the effect of producing immediate obedience to his wishes, and Flora reluctantly quitted the social group, and retired to her own chamber.

“Ah, Mary,” she said, as Miss Parnell safely deposited her and the precious baby between the hot blankets, “it was worth braving a thousand storms to receive such a welcome back. I never knew how much our dear kind friends loved us before.”

“And now we have got you safe back, Flora, who knows what may happen to prevent your leaving us again; Lyndsay may change his mind, and prefer being happy on a small income at home to seeking his fortune in a strange land.”

Flora shook her head.

“I know him better than you do, Mary. When once he has made up his mind to any step which he considers necessary, a little difficulty and danger will only stimulate him to exertion, and make him more eager to prosecute his voyage.”

Whilst sipping the potion prescribed by old Kitson, and giving Mary an account of all the perils they had encountered during the day, Nurse came running up-stairs to say that Captain Kitson thought that the Soho was just rounding the point off the cliff, and he wanted to know, that if it really proved to be her, whether Mrs. Lyndsay would get up and once more trust herself upon the waves?

“Not to-night, Nurse, if a fortune depended upon it,” said Flora, laughing. “Tell the Captain that I have spent the day in a salt-bath, and mean to pass the night in my bed.”

Fortunately, Mrs. Lyndsay was not put to this fresh trial. The Captain had mistaken the craft, and she was permitted to enjoy the warmth and comfort of a sound sleep, unbroken by the peals of laughter, that from time to time ascended from the room beneath; where the gentlemen seemed determined to make the night recompense them for the dangers and privations of the day.

The morning brought its own train of troubles—and when do they ever come singly? Upon examination, Lyndsay found that the salt-water had penetrated into all their trunks and cases; and that everything would have to be unpacked and hung out to dry. This was indeed dull work, the disappointment and loss attending upon it rendering it doubly irksome.

While Flora and her friend Mary superintended this troublesome affair, Lyndsay lost no time in writing to the steamboat company, informing them of his disastrous attempt to meet the Soho; and the loss he had incurred by missing the vessel. They stated in reply, that the boat had been wrecked at the mouth of the Thames, in the gale; and that another boat would supply her place on the Sunday following; that she would pass the town at noon, and hoist a red flag at her stern, as a signal for them to get on board.

This was Thursday, and the intervening days passed heavily along. A restless fever of expectation preyed upon Flora. She could settle to no regular occupation; she knew that the delay only involved a fresh and heavy expense, that they must ultimately go, and she longed to be off. The efforts made by her friends to amuse and divert her, only increased her impatience. But time, however slowly it passes to the anxious expectant, swiftly and surely ushers in the appointed day.

Sunday came at last, and proved one of the loveliest mornings of that delightful season of spring and sunshine. The lark carolled high in the air, the swallows darted on light wings to and fro; and the sea, vast and beautiful, gently heaved and undulated against the shore, with scarcely a ripple to break the long line of golden light, which danced and sparkled on its breast. The church bells were chiming for morning prayer; and the cliffs were covered with happy groups in their holiday attire. Flora, surrounded by friends and relatives, strove to be cheerful; and the day was so promising, that it infused new life and spirit into her breast. All eyes were turned to that part of the horizon, on which the long, black trailing smoke of the steamer was first expected to appear. A small boat, which had been engaged to put them and their luggage on board, and which contained all their worldly chattels, lay rocking in the surf, and all was ready for a start.

In the midst of an animated discussion on their future prospects, the signal was given, that the steamer was in sight, and had already rounded the point. How audibly to herself did Flora’s heart beat, as a small, black speck in the distance gradually increased to a black cloud; and not a doubt remained, that this was the expected vessel.

Then came the blinding tears, the re-enactment of the last passionate adieus, and they were once more afloat upon the water.

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CHAPTER XVI.
THE FOG.

The owner of the boat, a morose old seaman, grumbled out his commands to the two sailors who managed the craft, in such a dogged, sulky tone, that it attracted the attention of the elder Hawke, and being naturally fond of fun, he endeavoured to draw him out. An abrupt monosyllable was the sole reply he could obtain to any one of his many questions.

Lyndsay was highly amused by his surly humour, and flattered himself that he might prove more successful than his friend, by startling the sea-bear into a more lengthy growl.

“Friend,” said he carelessly, “I have forgotten your name?”

“Sam Rogers,” was the brief reply; uttered in a short grunt.

“Does the boat belong to you?”

“Yes.”

“She looks as if she had seen hard service?”

“Yes; both of us are the worse for wear.”

The ice once broken, Mr. Hawke chimed in—“Have you a wife, Captain Rogers?”

“She’s in the churchyard,” with a decided growl.

“So much the better for Mrs. Rogers,” whispered Lyndsay to Flora.

“You had better let the animal alone,” said Flora in the same tone: “’Tis sworn to silence.”

“Have you any family, Captain Rogers?” recommenced the incorrigible Hawke.

“Ay; more than’s good.”

“Girls, or boys?”

“What’s that to you? Too many of both. Why do you call me Captain? You knows well enough that I’m not a captain; never was a captain, and never wants to be.”

After this rebuff, the surly Rogers was left to smoke his short black pipe in peace, and in a few minutes the little boat came alongside the huge Leviathan of the deep. A rope was thrown from her deck, which having been secured, the following brief dialogue ensued:

“The City of Edinburgh, for Edinburgh?”

“The Queen of Scotland, for Aberdeen, Captain Fraser.”

This announcement was followed by a look of blank astonishment and disappointment from the party in the boat.

“Where is the City of Edinburgh?”

“We left her in the river. You had better take a passage with us to Aberdeen,” said Captain Fraser, advancing to the side of his vessel.

“Two hundred miles out of my way,” said Lyndsay. “Fall off.” The tow rope was cast loose, and the floating castle resumed her thundering course, leaving the party in the boat greatly disconcerted by the misadventure.

“The City of Edinburgh must soon be here?” said Lyndsay, addressing himself once more to Sam Rogers. That sociable individual continued smoking his short pipe without deigning to notice the speaker. “Had we not better lay-to, and wait for her coming up?”

“No; we should be run down by her. Do you see yon?” pointing with his pipe, to a grey cloud that was rolling over the surface of the sea towards them; “that’s the sea rake—in three minutes: in less than three minutes, you will not be able to discern objects three yards beyond your nose.”

“Pleasant news,” said Mr. Hawke, with rather a dolorous sigh. “This may turn out as bad as our last scrape. Lyndsay, you are an unlucky fellow. If you go on as you have begun, it will be some months before you reach Canada.”

In less time than the old man had prognosticated, the dense fog had rapidly spread itself over the water, blotting the sun from the heavens, and enfolding every object in its chilly embrace. The shores faded from their view, the very ocean on which they floated, was heard, but no longer seen. Nature seemed to have lost her identity, covered with that white sheet, which enveloped her like a shroud. Flora strove in vain to pierce the thick misty curtain by which they were surrounded. Her whole world was now confined to the little boat and the persons it contained: the rest of creation had become a blank. The fog wetted like rain, and was more penetrating, and the constant efforts she made to see through it, made her eyes and head ache, and cast a damp upon her spirits which almost amounted to despondency.

“What is to be done?” asked Lyndsay, who shared the same feelings in common with his wife.

“Nothing, that I know of,” responded Sam Rogers, “but to return.”

As he spoke a dark shadow loomed through the fog, which proved to be a small trading vessel, bound from London to Yarmouth. The sailors hailed her, and with some difficulty ran the boat alongside.

“Have you passed the City of Edinburgh?”

“We spake her in the river. She ran foul of the Courier steamer, and unshipped her rudder. She put back for repairs, and won’t be down till to-morrow morning.”

“The devil!” muttered Sam Rogers.

“Agreeable tidings for us,” sighed Flora. “This is worse than the storm; it is so unexpected. I should be quite disheartened, did I not believe that Providence directed these untoward events.”

“I am inclined to be of your opinion, Flora,” said Lyndsay, “in spite of my disbelief in signs and omens. There is something beyond mere accident in this second disappointment.”

“Is it not a solemn warning to us, not to leave England?” said Flora.

“I was certain that would be your interpretation of the matter,” returned her husband; “but having put my hand to the plough, Flora, I will not turn back.”

The sailors now took to their oars, the dead calm precluding the use of the sail, and began to steer their course homewards. The fog was so dense and bewildering that they made little way, and the long day was spent in wandering to and fro without being able to ascertain where they were.

“Hark!” cried one of the men, laying his ear to the side of the boat, “I hear the flippers of the steamer.”

“It is the roar of the accursed Barnet,” cried the other. “I know its voice of old, having twice been wrecked upon the reef—we must change our course; we are on a wrong tack altogether.”

It was near midnight before a breeze sprang up and dispelled the ominous fog. The moon showed her wan face through the driving scud, the sail was at last hoisted, and cold and hungry, and sick at heart, our voyagers once more returned to their old port.

This time, however, the beach was silent and deserted. No friendly voice welcomed them back. Old Kitson looked cross at being roused out of his bed at one o’clock in the morning, to admit them into the house, muttering as he did so, something about “unlucky folks, and the deal of trouble they gave; that they had better give up going to Canada altogether, and hire their old lodgings again; that it was no joke, having his rest broken at his time of life; that he could not afford to keep open house at all hours, for people who were in no ways related to him.”

With such consoling expressions of sympathy in their forlorn condition, did the hard, worldly old man proceed to unlock the door of their former domicile; but food, lights, and firing, he would not produce, until Lyndsay had promised ample remuneration for the same.

Exhausted in mind and body, for she had not broken her fast since eight o’clock that morning, Flora for a long time refused to partake of the warm cup of tea her loving partner had made with his own hands for her especial benefit; and her tears continued to fall involuntarily over the sleeping babe which lay upon her lap.

Mr. Hawke saw that her nerves were completely unstrung by fatigue, and ran across the green, and called up Flora’s nurse to take charge of the infant.

Mrs. Clarke, kind creature that she was, instantly hurried to the house to do what she could for the mother and child. Little Josey was soon well warmed and fed, and Flora smiled through her tears, when her husband made his appearance.

“Come, Flora,” he cried, “you are ill for the want of food,—I am going to make some sandwiches for you, and you must be a good girl and eat them, or I will never cater for you again.”

Mr. Hawke exerted all his powers of drollery to enliven the miscellaneous meal, and Flora soon retired to rest, fully determined to bear the crosses of life with more fortitude for the future.

The sun was not above the horizon, when she was roused, however, from a deep sleep, by the stentorian voice of old Kitson, who, anxious to get rid of his troublesome visitors, cried out, with great glee,—“Hallo! I say—here is the right steamer at last.—Better late than never. The red flag is hoisted at her stern; and she is standing right in for the bay. Quick! Quick, Leaftenant Lyndsay! or you’ll be too late.”

With all possible despatch Flora dressed herself, though baffled by anxiety from exerting unusual celerity. The business of the toilet had to be performed in such a brief space, that it was impossible to attend to it with any nicety. At last all was completed; Flora hurried down to the beach, with Hannah and Mrs. Clarke, James Hawke and Lyndsay having preceded them to arrange their passage to the steamer.

“Make haste, Mrs. Lyndsay,” shouted old Kitson; “these big dons wait for no one. I have got all your trunks stowed away into the boat, and the lads are waiting. If you miss your passage the third time, you may give it up as a bad job.”