ms, and, when morning dawned, the second cutter, under command of
Mr. Ernescliffe, had disappeared. There could be no doubt that she had
sunk, and the captain could only record his regrets for the loss the
service had experienced in the three brave young officers and their
gallant seamen. After infinite toil and suffering, the captain, with the
other boats' crews, had reached Tahiti, whence they had made their way
home.

"Oh, Margaret, Margaret!" cried Ethel.

Margaret raised herself, and the colour came into her face.

"I did not write the letter!" she said.

"What letter?" said Ethel, alarmed.

"Richard prevented me. The letter that would have parted us. Now all is
well."

"All is well, I know, if we could but feel it."

"He never had the pain. It is unbroken!" continued Margaret, her eyes
brightening, but her breath, in long-drawn gasps that terrified Ethel
into calling Dr. Spencer.

Mary was standing before him, with bloodless face and dilated eyes; but,
as Ethel approached, she turned and rushed upstairs.

Dr. Spencer entered the drawing-room with Ethel, who tried to read his
face as he saw Margaret--restored, as it seemed, to all her girlish
bloom, and her eyes sparkling as they were lifted up, far beyond the
present scene. Ethel had a moment's sense that his expression was as
if he had seen a death-blow struck, but it was gone in a moment, as
he gently shook Margaret by the hand, and spoke a word of greeting, as
though to recall her.

"Thank you," she said, with her own grateful smile.

"Where is your father?" he asked of Ethel.

"Either at the hospital, or at Mr. Ramsden's," said Ethel, with a
ghastly suspicion that he thought Margaret in a state to require him.

"Papa!" said Margaret. "If he were but here! But--ah! I had forgotten."

She turned aside her head, and hid her face. Dr. Spencer signed Ethel
nearer to him. "This is a more natural state," he said. "Don't be afraid
for her. I will find your father, and bring him home." Pressing her hand
he departed.

Margaret was weeping tranquilly--Ethel knelt down beside her, without
daring at first to speak, but sending up intense mental prayers to Him,
who alone could bear her or her dear father through their affliction.
Then she ventured to take her hand, and Margaret returned the caress,
but began to blame herself for the momentary selfishness that had
allowed her brother's loss and her father's grief to have been forgotten
in her own. Ethel's