rning
for their eternal holiday of love and praise.

"What are you thinking of, Flora?" said Lyndsay, drawing her arm within
his own.

"I was thinking, dearest, that it was good to be here."

"Your thoughts, then, were an echo of my own. Depend upon it, Flora,
that we shall find it all right at last."

For a long time they stood together, silently surveying the magnificent
coast which was rapidly gliding from them. Lyndsay's soul-lighted eyes
rested proudly upon it; and a shade of melancholy passed across his
brow. It was his native land, and he deeply felt that he looked upon its
stern majestic face for the last time; but he was not a man who could
impart the inner throbbings of his heart, (and it was a great heart,) to
others. Such feelings he considered too sacred to unveil to common
observation; and even she could only read by the varying expression of
his countenance the thoughts that were working within.

"Courage, my dear Flora," he said at length, with one of his own kind
smiles. "All will be well in the end; and we shall still be happy in
each other's love. Yes, as happy in the backwoods of Canada, as we have
been in England."

Flora felt that with him she could be happy anywhere; that paradise
would be a prison, if his presence did not enliven and give interest to
the scene.

Few of the emigrants had found their way to the deck at that early hour;
and for some time Flora enjoyed a charming _tete-a-tete_ with her
husband. Gradually the deck grew more populous; and men were seen
lounging against the bulwarks, smoking their pipes, or performing their
ablutions, a wooden tub and canvass bucket serving them for hand-basin
and water-jug.

Tom afterwards commenced the great business of cooking the morning meal;
and Hannibal, the black lord of the caboose, was beset by a host of
scolding, jabbering women, all fighting and quarrelling for the first
chance at the stove. He took their abuse very coolly, settling the
dispute by making the auld wives draw lots for precedence. They
consented to this arrangement with a very bad grace. Not more than four
kettles could occupy the fire at one time, and though some clubbed, and
made their mess of porridge together in one large pot, the rest grumbled
and squabbled during the whole operation, elbowing and crowding for more
room, and trying to push each other's coffee and teapots into the fire.
And then all in a breath, at the very top of their shrill voices,
appealed to