length she
found the door, and lifting the mattress from her berth, into which she
found it impossible to climb, she took her baby in her arms, and lay
down upon the heaving floor, commending herself and her
fellow-passengers to the care of God.

To sleep was impossible; but her mind seemed sustained by a lofty
courage which made her feel calm in the midst of danger. This strength
was not her own; it was derived from a higher source--a firm reliance on
the unerring wisdom and providence of God. If death was His decree, she
would try to meet it with becoming fortitude. Resistance and
lamentations were alike useless; even prayers for self-preservation
appeared impious. She was in His keeping, and she felt confident that
whatever might befal her and those so dear to her was for the best.

The hurricane roared through the long starless night. Floods of rain
forced their way through the skylight, and drenched her bed. She buried
her head in the wet blankets, and shivered with cold. Yet Josey slept as
peacefully as ever on her mother's breast, happily unconscious of the
terrors of the hour.

About four o'clock in the morning, Lyndsay opened the door of her little
cabin. The water was streaming from his garments.

"Flora, are you awake?"

"Yes, darling," she cried, starting to a sitting posture; "who could
sleep in such a storm?"

"It has been a dreadful night. The danger is over. The ship is no longer
on the lee shore, but standing out to sea. At one time, we expected that
she would run upon the rocks and go down. The gale still continues, but
we have plenty of sea-room. I have been hard at work all night. The men
behaved like trumps--especially old Macdonald and the Dragoon. I am
going to change these wet clothes, and lie down for an hour. So content
yourself, my Flora. Thank God for our deliverance, and go to sleep."

Flora had silently done that already. In a few minutes she was
slumbering as peacefully as Josey--dreaming of green fields, and running
brooks, and wandering with dear familiar faces, among nature's quiet
haunts, in the memory-haunting eternity of the past.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE SHIP COMES TO AN ANCHOR, AND THE BOOK TO A CLOSE.

The next morning, Flora hastened upon deck; but while there, the wind
was still so high, and the waves so rough, that she could not stand
without holding to the ropes. The sea was covered with foam, the heavens
with flying rack, which rolled in huge broken masses roun