day with one's letters; they are the
evil fates, whose machinations all our efforts are directed against.
They are, besides, the whispering of the storm that is brewing afar off,
but is sure to overtake us. One ought to meet them with a well-rested
brain and refreshed spirit, not wearied and jaded and unstrung by the
day's toil."

And the Captain prepared to obey, but not without a variety of
precautions against catching cold, which seemed somewhat to try his
daughter's patience.

"You really," said she, with a half-bitter smile, "take very little
account of the anxiety I must feel about my future husband."

"Nonsense, dear; the O'Shea is not to be thought of. It would really be
a gross misuse of wealth to share it with such a man."

"So it might, if one were free to choose. But it's the old story, papa,"
said she, with a sigh. "To be cured of the ague, one is willing to take
arsenic. There, you are surely muffled enough now; lose no more time,
and, above all things, don't get into a gossiping mood, and stay to talk
with Trover, or be seduced by Mr. Winthrop's juleps, but come back at
once, for I have a sort of feverish foreboding over me that I cannot
control."

"How silly that is, dear!--to have a stout heart on the high seas and
grow cowardly in the harbor."

"But _are_ we in the harbor? Are we so _very_ certain that the voyage is
over?" said she, with increased eagerness, "But pray go for the letters,
or I will myself."

He set out at last, and she watched him as he shut the wicket and
crossed out upon the high-road; and then, all alone as she sat, she
burst into a passionate flood of tears. Was this the relief of a nature
strained like an over-bent bow? Was it the sorrowful outburst of a
spirit which, however bold and defiant to the world, was craven to
itself; or was it simply that fear had mastered her, and that she felt
the approach of the storm that was to shipwreck her?

She must have been partly stunned by her sorrow, for she sat, no
longer impatient, nor watching eagerly for his return, but in a sort of
half-lethargic state, gazing out unconsciously into the falling night
that now closed in fast around her.

It is neither a weak nor an ignorant theory that ascribes, even to the
most corrupt natures, moments of deepest remorse, sincere and true,
aspirations after better things, and a willingness to submit to the
severest penalties of the past, if only there be a "future" in store for
them. Who ca