l.
No doubt there was reason.

I shall never forget the morning. The wind had gone down; the sun rose
bright, and burned into my brain; the waves were to me like live
creatures, dancing and laughing around us. They seemed to say, "We've
had our victim, and are now at peace with mankind. Pass on. Pass on."

As we neared the shore, I made great efforts to be calm; for at home
were those to whom I must say, "Here I am safe, but Frederic is
drowned."

What would they want of me?

It was still early when we landed. I could only creep along the path,
holding on by the fence; for my feet were like leaden weights. My form
bowed itself like an old man's. The fields, the trees, were not green,
but ghastly.

The sumachs prevented my being seen from the house. As I drew near, I
saw Lucy standing at the back door, looking down at the vessel.

Frederic had never left home before, since their marriage. Such a happy
look as there was on her face!

I crept off to a clump of willows, and from there ran down the hill and
across the Little Swamp to the minister's.

They were in the midst of family prayers. All of them started to their
feet, asking what had happened. I had just strength enough to gasp out,
"You must tell them. I can't. Frederic is drowned,"--and then fell down
in a faint.

O what a desolate home is ours! Poor Lucy! Poor heart-broken young
thing!

On that same night a strange thing happened here at home. Mammy could
not be got off to bed. She was anxious, and would sit up. At length,
(this was about midnight,) she leaned her head back, and seemed to fall
into a sleep, so quiet that they could scarce hear her breath. Then a
beautiful smile spread over her face. Her lips moved, and spoke, as they
thought, Frederic's name. She awoke soon after, but has never since that
hour been quite herself,--never seemed conscious of Frederic's loss. She
speaks of him as of one gone a journey. Some talk of her exertions the
night before, of her anxiety, or of a partial stroke. But I think, and
shall always think, that Frederic's angel appeared to her, and, in some
way, deadened her mind to the dreadful suffering his loss would
occasion.

We have sent for Aunt Bethiah. We need her firmness now.

* * * * *

_October 20._--Elinor is in a strange way. I have never seen her either
weep, or smile, or work, or read, since that terrible day. I must take
back part of that. She does smile, as she sits i