Flora followed the gallant captain into the kitchen, marvelling in her own mind what this private communication could be. The old man shut the door carefully behind him; then said, in a mysterious whisper—“The old clothes; do you remember what I said to you last night?” Taken by surprise, Flora looked down, coloured, and hesitated; she was afraid of wounding his feelings. Simple woman! the man was without delicacy, and had no feelings to wound. “There is a bundle of things, Captain Kitson,” she faltered out at last, “in the press in my bedroom, for Mr. Charles—coats, trowsers, and other things. I was ashamed to mention to you such trifles.” “Never mind—never mind, my dear; I am past blushing at my time of life; and reelly—(he always called it reelly)—I am much obliged to you.” After a pause, in which both looked supremely foolish, the old man continued—“There was a china cup and two plates—pity to spoil the set—that your careless maid broke the other day in the washhouse. Did Mrs. K. mention them to you, my dear?” “Yes, sir, and they are _paid_ for,” said Flora, turning with disgust from the sordid old man. “Have you anything else to communicate?” “All right,” said the Captain. “Here is your husband looking for you. The boat is ready.” “Flora, we only wait for you,” said Lyndsay. Flora placed the precious babe in her father’s arms, and they descended the steep flight of steps that led from the cliff to the beach. In spite of the inclemency of the weather a crowd of old and young had assembled on the beach to witness their embarcation, and bid them farewell. The hearty “God bless you! God grant you a prosperous voyage, and a better home than the one you leave, on the other side of the Atlantic!” burst from the lips of many an honest tar; and brought the tears into Flora’s eyes, as the sailors crowded round the emigrants, to shake hands with them before they stepped into the noble boat that lay rocking in the surf. Precious to Flora and Lyndsay were the pressure of those hard rough hands. They expressed the honest sympathy felt, by a true-hearted set of poor men, in their present situation and future welfare. “You are not going without one parting word with me!” cried Mary Parnell, springing down the steep bank of stones, against which thundered the tremendous surf. The wind had blown her straw bonnet back upon her shoulders, and scattered her fair hair in beautiful confusion round her lovely face. The weeping, agitated girl was alternately clasped in the arms of Lyndsay and his wife. “Why did you expose yourself, dear Mary, to weather like this?” “Don’t talk of weather,” sobbed Mary; “I only know that we must part. Do you begrudge me the last look? Good-bye! God bless you both!”