“There’s a change of weather at hand, Mrs. Lyndsay; you may look out for squalls before six o’clock to-morrow. The wind shifts every minute, and there’s an ugly swell rolling in upon the shore.” “Ah, I hope it will be fine,” said Flora, looking anxiously up at the troubled sky; “it is so miserable to begin a long journey in the rain. Perhaps it will pass off during the night in a thunder-shower.” The old man whistled, shut one eye, and looked knowingly at the sea with the other. “Women know about as much of the weather as your nurse does of handling a rope. Whew! but there’s a gale coming; I’ll down to the beach, and tell the lads to haul up the boats, and make all snug before it bursts,” and away toddled the old man, full of the importance of his mission. It was the last night at home—the last social meeting of kindred friends on this side the grave. Flora tried to appear cheerful, but the forced smile upon the tutored lips, rendered doubly painful the tears kept back in the swollen eyes; the vain effort of the sorrowful in heart to be gay. Alas! for the warm hearts, the generous friendships, the kindly greetings of dear Old England, when would they be hers again? Flora’s friends at length took leave, and she was left with her husband alone. CHAPTER XIII. THE DEPARTURE. It was the dawn of day when Flora started from a broken, feverish sleep, aroused to consciousness by the heavy roaring of the sea, as the huge billows thundered against the stony beach. To spring from her bed and draw back the curtains of the window which commanded a full view of the bay, was but the work of a moment. How quickly she let it fall in despair over the cheerless prospect it presented to her sight! Far as the eye could reach the sea was covered with foam. Not a sail was visible, and a dark leaden sky was pouring down torrents of rain. “What a morning!” she muttered to herself, as she stole quietly back to bed. “It will be impossible to put to sea to-day.” The sleep which had shunned her pillow during the greater part of the night, gently stole over her, and “wrapped her senses in forgetfulness;” and old Kitson, two hours later, twice threw a pebble against the window, before she awoke. “_Leaftenant_ Lyndsay—_Leaftenant_ Lyndsay!” shouted the Captain, in a voice like a speaking-trumpet—“wind and tide wait for no man. Up, up, and be doing.” “Ay, ay,” responded Lyndsay, rubbing his eyes, and going to the window. “See what a storm the night has been brewing for you,” continued old Kitson. “It blows great guns, and there’s rain enough to float Noah’s ark. Waters is here, and wants to see you. He says that his small craft won’t live in a sea like this. You’ll have to put off your voyage till the steamer takes her next trip.” “That’s bad,” said Lyndsay, hurrying on his clothes, and joining the old sailor on the lawn. “Is there any chance, Kitson, of this holding up?”