Captain Stimpson, much surprised, replied, “I did not see him myself, but his cousin, Squire Wendell, did. He met him in the street between three and four in the afternoon. There could have been no mistake, for he told the squire something of great importance to his family, that nobody but himself could have known. The vessel we supposed he came in, put in at Beverly; she staid only long enough to deliver some dispatches for government, and sailed directly for Quebec, intending to return here in a month. We supposed fully that your vessel was the one, and we were expecting Captain Fayerweather when you came.” While the captain spoke, Mr. Brown showed marks of astonishment and agitation. He was silent a few moments, though his lips moved, and he appeared to be making some calculations. At length he spoke, in a voice apparently from the depths of his chest, slowly and distinctly, but turning pale as he proceeded. “On the fifth of November, two days sail from London, about eight o’clock in the evening, which, allowing for difference of longitude, corresponds to between three and four here, in a raging storm, Captain Fayerweather fell from the mast-head into the sea, and was lost!” Judith’s shriek was heard from the inner-room, but before her parents could reach it, she had fallen senseless on the floor. Her father took her in his arms, while her mother bathed her temples. On reviving, she held up her clasped hands imploringly to her mother, and asked if she had heard aright, and if her ears had not deceived her. Poor Mrs. Stimpson was incapable of answering her, excepting by tears; and her father could only clasp her more closely. “Oh! he’s gone then;—let me go, too;” and she struggled to free herself. “But where! where shall I go?—what shall I do? Why did you bring me to?—it would have been better for me to have died. I do not wish to live! Why did you not let me die? I will die!—I will not live!” Her father now blubbered outright. “And would you leave your poor old sir, and your ma’am, that have their lives bound up in you, and that would die, too, without you? Have you no love left for them?” “I do love you both,” she cried; “but now—oh, George! I wish I was in the depths of the sea with you.” “Hush! sinful child,” sternly said her grandfather, who had left his chair and now stood before her, his trembling, withered hand held up in reproof; “receive this dispensation of the Lord as a massy; he has taken from you your idol, that was a robbing him of your heart; turn to him on your bended knees, and implore His pardon for your sin.” As she heard him, she appeared by a strong effort only, to suppress a scream. “Oh! spare me now, grandfather,” she cried; and she threw herself on the floor, where she lay with her arm over her face, whilst sobs convulsed her whole frame.