I will
never be able to know what you are doing!" she said, again.

"Ah, yes, you will!" said I, to encourage her.

As she became despondent, I got sanguine; although, a tear in the soft
grey eyes would have unmanned me at once.

"Miss Pimpernell is going to write to me, you know,"--I continued,--"and
I to her; so you will be made acquainted with all I do and, even, think.
I will write fully to the dear old lady, I promise you!"

She gave me a little Bible and Prayer-book, before we separated, in
which she had written my name; and, told me that she would pray every
night for me, that I might know that her prayers joined mine, and that
both, together, would go up before the Master's throne--notwithstanding
that the Atlantic might roll between us.

She also gave me a likeness of herself, which was of more solace to me
afterwards than I can tell.

A little, simple photograph it was, that has lain before my eyes a
thousand times--in hope, in sadness, in sickness, in disappointment;
and, that has always cheered me and encouraged me in some of the darkest
moments of my life, ever bringing back to my mind the darling words of
the giver.

And then, we parted.

One sobbing sigh, that expressed a world of emotion. One frenzied clasp
of her to my heart, as if I could never let her go; and, our "Good-bye"
was spoken, accomplished:--a good-bye whose recollection was to last!
until I returned to claim her, receiving the welcome that her darling
rosebud lips would gladly utter; and watching, the while, the unspoken
delight that would then, I know, dance from the loving, soul-lit, truth-
telling, grey eyes!

CHAPTER NINE.

ACROSS THE ATLANTIC.

O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire and behold our home!

"Sir," said the Honourable Mister Pigeonbarley of Missouri, "we _air_
a peculiar people. Jes so!"

Have you never noticed how, when travelling on a long journey, the
wheels of the railway carriage in which you are sitting seem always to
be rattling out some carefully studied tune, to which the jolts of the
vehicle beat a concerted bass; while, the slackening of the coupling
chains, in combination with the concussion of the buffers as they hitch
up suddenly again, sounds a regular obbligato accompaniment--the scream
of the steam whistle, and the thundering whish and whirr of the train