It was the last evening we would spend together, perhaps for years. The wind had died away, and we slowly floated upward with the tide, the shores of James Island hanging like a dark cloud on the larboard beam, and the lights of the distant city, glimmering along the horizon inboard; while no sound broke the stillness of the hour, except the occasional wash of a ripple, or the song of some negro fishermen floating across the water. As I stood by the starboard railing, gazing on this scenery, I could not help contrasting my present situation with what it had been but a few short weeks before, when I left the harbor of New York. So intensely was I wrapt in these thoughts, that I did not notice the appearance of Beatrice on deck, until the question of the helmsman, dissolving my reverie, caused me to look around me. For a moment I hesitated whether I should join her or not. My feelings at length, however, prevailed; and crossing the deck, I soon stood at her side. She did not appear to notice my presence, but with her elbow resting on the railing, and her head buried in her hand, was pensively looking down upon the tide. “Miss Derwent!” said I, with a voice that I was conscious trembled, though I scarce knew why it did. “Mr. Parker!” she ejaculated in a tone of surprise, her eyes sparkling, as starting suddenly around she blushed over neck and brow, and then as suddenly dropped her eyes to the deck, and began playing with her fan. For a moment we were both mutually embarrassed. A woman is, at such times, the first to speak. “Shall we be able to land to-night?” said Beatrice. “Not unless a breeze springs up—” “Oh! then I hope we shall not have one,” ejaculated the guileless girl; but instantly becoming aware of the interpretation which might be put upon her remark, she blushed again, and cast her eyes anew upon the deck. A strange, joyous hope shot through my bosom; but I made a strong effort and checked my feelings. Another silence ensued, which every moment became more oppressive. “You join, I presume, your cousin’s family on landing,” said I at length, “I will, as soon as we come to anchor, send a messenger ashore, apprising him of your presence on board.” “How shall I ever thank you sufficiently,” said Beatrice, raising her dark eyes frankly to mine, “for your kindness? Never—never,” she continued more warmly, “shall I forget it.” My soul thrilled to its deepest fibre at the words, and more than all, at the tone of the speaker; and it was with some difficulty that I could answer calmly,— “The consciousness of having ever merited Miss Derwent’s thanks, is a sufficient reward for all I have done. That she will not wholly forget me is more than I could ask; but believe me, Beatrice,” said I, unable to restrain my feelings, and venturing, for the first time, to call her by that name, “though we shall soon part forever, never, never can I forget these few happy days.”