ther!"

"Then farewell, and the curse of my ruin rest with you," he cried in
desperation, and wringing her hands fiercely in his, he cleared the
window with a bound, and letting himself down by the apple-tree,
disappeared.

The tempter was gone; Florence was left alone, her head reeling with
pain, her heart aching within her bosom. Jameson's last words had
fallen upon her heart like fire; what if this refusal to share his
fate had confirmed him in evil? What if she, by partaking of his
fortunes, might have won him to an honorable and just life. These
thoughts were agony to her, and left no room for calm reflection, or
she would have known that no _human_ influence can reclaim a base
nature; one fault may be redeemed, nay, many faults that spring from
the heat of passion or the recklessness of youth, but habitual
hypocrisy, craft, falsehood--what female heart ever opposed its love
and truth to vices like these, without being crushed in the endeavor
to save.

But Florence could not reason then. Her soul was affrighted by the
curse that had been hurled upon it. Half frantic with these new themes
of torture, she left her room, and hurried down to the cove just in
time to see the boat which contained Jameson half way to the vessel.
Actuated only by a wild desire to see him depart, she threaded her way
through the oak grove, unmindful of the dew, of her thin raiment, or
of the morning wind that tossed her curls about as she hurried on. And
now she stood upon the outer point of the shore, where it jutted
inward at the mouth of the cove and commanded a broad view of the
ocean. High trees were around her as she stood upon the shelving bank,
her white garments streaming in the breeze, her wild eyes gazing upon
the vessel as it wheeled slowly round and made for the open ocean.
Florence remained motionless where she stood so long as a shadow of
the vessel fluttered in sight. When it was lost in the horizon she
turned slowly and walked toward the house, weary as one who returns
from a toilsome pilgrimage. It was days and weeks before she came
forth again.

Years went by--many, many years, and yet that outward bound vessel was
never heard of again. How she perished, or when, no man can tell. The
last ever seen of her to mortal knowledge was when Florence Hurst
stood alone upon the sea-shore, conscious that she was right, yet
filled with bitter anguish as she watched its departure to that
far-off shore from which no traveler ret