nly of the future--_of our father_."

The thought decides her; and, stepping out to the extremest limit the
guard-rail allows, she flings the photograph upon the paddles of the
revolving wheel, as she does so, saying--

"Away, image of one once loved--picture of a man who has proved false!
Be crushed, and broken, as he has broken my heart!"

The sigh that escapes her, on letting drop the bit of cardboard, more
resembles a subdued scream--a stifled cry of anguish, such as could only
come from what she has just spoken of--a broken heart.

As she turns to re-enter the cabin, she appears ill-prepared for taking
part, or pleasure, in a game of cards.

And she takes not either. That round of _vingt-un_ is never to be
played--at least not with her as one of the players.

Still half distraught with the agony through which her soul has passed--
the traces of which she fancies must be observable on her face--before
making appearance in the brilliantly-lighted saloon, she passes around
the corner of the ladies' cabin, intending to enter her own state-room
by the outside door.

It is but to spend a moment before her mirror, there to arrange her
dress, the plaiting of her hair--perhaps the expression of her face--all
things that to men may appear trivial, but to women important--even in
the hour of sadness and despair. No blame to them for this. It is but
an instinct--the primary care of their lives--the secret spring of their
power.

In repairing to her toilette, Helen Armstrong is but following the
example of her sex.

She does not follow it far--not even so far as to get to her
looking-glass, or even inside her state-room. Before entering it, she
makes stop by the door, and tarries with face turned towards the river's
bank.

The boat, tacking across stream, has sheered close in shore; so close
that the tall forest trees shadow her track--the tips of their branches
almost touching the hurricane-deck. They are cypresses, festooned with
grey-beard moss, that hangs down like the drapery of a death-bed. She
sees one blighted, stretching forth bare limbs, blanched white by the
weather, desiccated and jointed like the arms of a skeleton.

'Tis a ghostly sight, and causes her weird thoughts, as under the clear
moonbeams the steamer sweeps past the place.

It is a relief to her, when the boat, gliding on, gets back into
darkness.

Only momentary; for there under the shadow of the cypresses, lit up by
the flash of th