noble privilege of not caring whither. How she
spins through it now."

"It is immensely exciting," said she, and her
colour heightened as she spoke.

".Have you superstitions about dates?" he
asked, after another pause.

"No; I don't think so. My life has been so
uneventful. Few days record anything
memorable. But why did you ask?"

"I am—I am a devout believer in lucky and
unlucky days, and had I only bethought me this
was a Friday, I'd have put off our sail till
tomorrow."

"It is strange to see a man like you attach
importance to these things."

"And yet it is exactly men like me who do so.
Superstitions belong to hardy, stern, rugged
races, like the northmen, even more than the
natives of southern climes. Too haughty and
too self-dependent to ask counsel from others
like themselves, they seek advice in the occult
signs and faint whispers of the natural world,
Would you believe it, that I cast a horoscope
last night to know if I should succeed in the
next project I undertook?"

"And what was the answer?"

"An enigma to this purpose: that if what I
undertook corresponded with the entrance of
Orion into the seventh house——Why are you
laughing?"

"Is it not too absurd to hear such nonsense
from you?"

'Was it not the grotesque homage of the
witch made Macbeth a murderer? What are
you doing, child? Luff—luff up; the wind is
freshening."

"I begin to think there should be a more
skilful hand on the tiller. It blows freshly now."

"In three days more, Florence," said he,
gravely, " it will be exactly two years since we
sailed here all alone. Those two years have
been to me like a long, long life, so much of
danger and trouble and suffering have been
compassed in them. Were I to tell you all, you'd
own that few men could have borne my burden
without being crushed by it. It was not death
in any common shape that I confronted; but I
must not speak of this. What I would say is,
that through all the perils I passed, one image
floated before me—one voice was in my ear. It
was yours."

"Dear Harry, let me implore you not to go
back to these things."

"I must, Florence—I must," said he, still
more sadly. " If I pain you, it is only your fair
share of suffering."

' My fair share! And why?"

"For this reason. When I knew you first,
I was a worn-out, weary, heart-sick man of the
world. Young as I was, I was weary of it all;
I thought. I had tasted of whatever it had of
sweet or bitter. I had no wish to renew my
experiences. I felt there was a road to go, and I
began my life-journey without interest, or
anxiety, or hope. You taught me otherwise,
Florence; you revived the heart that was all
but cold, and brought it back to life and
energy; you inspired me with high ambitions
and noble desires; you gave confidence where
there had been distrust, and hope where there
had been indifference."

"There, there!" cried she, eagerly; "there
comes another squall. You must take the helm;
I am getting frightened."

"You are calmer than I am, Florence dearest.
Hear me out. Why, I ask you—why call me
back to an existence which you intended to make
valueless to me? Why ask me to go a road
where you refused to journey?"

"Do come here! I know not what I am
doing. And see, it grows darker and darker
over yonder!"

"You steered me into stormier waters, and
had few compunctions for it. Hear me out,
Florence. For you I came back to a life that
I ceased to care for; for you I took on me cares,
and dangers, and crosses, and conquered them
all; for you I won honours, high rewards, and
riches, and now I come to lay them at your
feet, and say, 'Weigh all these against the
proofs of that other man's affection. Put
into one scale these successes, won alone for
you; these trials, these wounds—and into the
other some humdrum letters of that good-
enough creature, who is no more worthy of you
than he has the courage to declare it.'"

As he spoke, a clap of thunder, sharp as a
cannon-shot, broke above their heads, and a
squall struck the boat aloft, bending her over
till she half filled with water, throwing at the
same time the young girl from her place to the
lee-side of the boat.

Lifting her up, Calvert placed her on the seat,
while he supported her with one arm, and with
the other hand grasped the tiller.

"Is there danger?" whispered she, faintly.

"No, dearest, none. I'll bale out the water
when the wind lulls a little. Sit close up here,
and all will be well."

The boat, however, deeply laden, no longer
rose over the waves, but dipped her bow and
took in more water at every plunge.

"Tell me this hand is mine, my own dearest
Florence—mine for ever, and see how it will
nerve my arm. I am powerless if I am hopeless.
Tell me that I have something to live for,
and I live."

"Oh, Harry, is it when my heart is dying
with fear that you ask me this? Is it generous
—is it fair? there! the sail is gone! the ropes
are torn across."

"It is only the jib, darling, and we shall be
better without it. Speak, Florence! say it is
my own wife I am saving—not the bride of that
man, who, if he were here, would be at your feet
in craven terror this instant."

"There goes the mast!"

At the word the spar snapped close to the
thwart and fell over the side, carrying the sail
with it. The boat now lay with one gunwale
completely under water, helpless and
waterlogged. A wild shriek burst from the girl, who
thought all was lost.

"Courage, dearest—courage! she'll float