Four o’clock P.M. had been tolled from all the steeples in Edinburgh, when Flora stood upon the pier “o’ Leith,” watching the approach of the small boat which was to convey her on board the ugly black vessel which lay at anchor at the Berwick Law. It was a warm, close, hazy afternoon; distant thunder muttered among the hills, and dense clouds floated around the mountain from base to summit, shrouding its rugged outline in a mysterious robe of mist. Ever and anon, as the electrical breeze sprang up and stirred these grey masses of vapour, they rolled up in black shadowy folds which took all sorts of Ossianic and phantom-like forms—spirits of bards and warriors, looking from their grey clouds upon the land their songs had immortalised, or their valour saved. Parties of emigrants and their friends were gathered together in small picturesque groups on the pier. The cheeks of the women were pale and wet with tears. The words of blessing and farewell, spoken to those near and dear to them, were often interrupted by low wailing and heart-breaking sobs. Flora stood apart waiting for her husband, who had been to the ship, and was in the returning boat now making its way through the water to take her off. Sad she was, and pale and anxious, for the wide world was all before her, a world of new scenes and strange faces. A future as inscrutable and mysterious almost as that from which humanity instinctively shrinks, which leads so many to cling with expiring energy to evils with which they have grown familiar, rather than launch alone into that unknown sea which never bears upon its bosom a returning sail. Ah! well is it for the poor trembling denizens of earth that— “Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate,” or how could they bear up from day to day against the accumulated ills which beset them at every turn along the crooked paths of life? Flora had already experienced that bitterness of grief, far worse than death, which separates the emigrant from the home of his love, the friends of his early youth, the land of his birth; and she shed no tear over the mournful recollection, though the deep sigh which shook her heart to its inmost depths, told that it was still felt and painfully present to her memory. She stood alone among that weeping crowd; no kindred hand was there to press hers for the last, last time, or bid God speed her on her perilous voyage. What a blessing it would have been at that moment, to have bent a parting glance on some dear familiar face, and gathered strength and consolation from eyes full of affection and sympathy!