In the passenger list there had appeared the names of Mr. J. Lawton Bassett and daughter, and the pair thus registered had gone on board over night because of the very early hour of sailing, they said, but it was really an effort to avoid public notice; and all the bell-ringing, pulling, hauling, rushing, and trampling were over and comparative quiet reigned before John Lawton and Sybil, his daughter, ascended to the deck to look about them and with sad eyes to take farewell of the great city they loved, with its rapidly softening outlines, blending, blurring into a grayish mass touched with a few strong darks, many sharp, white lights, and here and there a gleam from the golden cross of some sky-piercing spire. As they leaned against the rail, the girl with cloudy hair, sombre eyes, and black-robed figure clinging to the arm of the pale old gentleman, also in mourning, they made a pathetic picture. Silently they watched--each was trying to hide grief for the other's sake. It was well for Sybil that this helpless old father needed her devoted care, for an awful temptation had come to her in her despair. "Oh," she cried, now in her heart, "if I only had Dorothy's faith in God! Dorothy's hope for the beautiful hereafter! But," she mused bitterly, "Dorothy has not sinned, while I--and yet, if God is what she believes Him, He could pity even me!" Then she shivered, for, looking out over the water, she thought of the exultant old anthem, and quoting "The sea is His, and He made it!" she felt suddenly that she was too small, too insignificant, for her cry of repentance to be noticed. The wind was sharpening. Her thoughts came back to her father. They had been out there a very long time--too long, and--and what was that man--the purser--doing? Handing an envelope to a big man already in cap and ulster, and calling--could she be right--calling: "Miss Lawton? Is a Miss Sybil Lawton here?" The pilot had been dropped half an hour or more ago. Why--why, what was this? An envelope thrust into her unwilling hand, and the purser was away, calling for a Mr. Pemberton Something, and waving one last missive aloft for its claimant. "Dorothy!" gasped the old man, and closed his eyes a moment. Sybil's nervous fingers tore the envelope, and opened the bit of yellow paper. She read breathlessly, looked about her, passed her hand over her eyes, read again. And then she flung her arms about her father's trembling, frail old body, buried her face in his breast, and laughed--laughed with tears running down her cheeks--laughed and blessed God for his goodness! Then, looking up at her father's quivering mouth, she put her fingers on it, saying: "Don't, dada, it's good news--about Dorothy!" A smile came to his lips, an eager light to his eyes. "Why! why!" he said. "I expected the news would be awaiting us at Liverpool; but really, I----" Again that hysterical laughter shook the girl. "You're surprised, darling!" she said, "but wait till you hear the message."