At last she was alone. She could think at her ease, without the voice of her tyrant saying, “What are you thinking about?” Ever since she had read in the Journal the brief words, “There is no intelligence of the Cydnus,” the image of her child had pursued her. Her nights had been sleepless, and she listened to the wind with singular terror. It seemed to blow from all quarters, rattling the windows and wailing through the chimneys. But whether it whispered or shrieked, it spoke to her, and said what it always says to the mothers and wives of sailors, who turn pale as they listen. The wind comes from afar, but it comes quickly and has met with many adventures. With one gust it has torn away the sails of a vessel, set fire to a quiet home, and carried death and destruction on its wings. This it is that gives to its voice such melancholy intonations. This night it was dreary enough: it rattles the windows and whistles under the doors; it wishes to come in, for it bears a message to this poor mother, and it sounds like an appeal or a warning. The ticking of the clock, the distant noise of a locomotive, all take the same plaintive tone and beseeching accent. Charlotte knows only too well what the wind wishes to tell her. It is a story of a ship rolling on the broad ocean, without sails or rudder—of a maddened crowd on the deck, of cries and shrieks, curses and prayers. Her hallucination is so strong that she even hears from the ship a beseeching cry of “Mamma!” She starts to her feet; she hears it again. To escape it, she walks about the room, opens the door and looks down the corridor. She sees nothing, but she hears a sigh, and, raising her lamp higher, discovers a dark shadow crouched in the corner. “Who is that?” she cried, half in terror, half in hope. “It is I, dear mother!” said a weak voice. She ran toward him. It is her boy—a tall, rough sailor—rising as she approached him, with the aid of a pair of crutches. And this is what she has made of her child! Not a word, not an exclamation, not a caress. They look at each other, and tears fill the eyes of both. A certain fatality attaches itself to some people, which renders them and all that they do absolutely ridiculous. When D’Argenton returned that night, he came with the determination to disclose the fatal news to Charlotte, and to have the whole affair concluded. The manner in which he turned the key in the lock announced this solemn determination. But what was his surprise to find the parlor a blaze of light! Charlotte—and on the table by the fire the remains of a meal. She came to him in a terrible state of agitation. “Hush! Pray make no noise—he is here and asleep.” “Who is here?” “Jack, of course. He has been shipwrecked, and is severely injured. He has been saved as by a miracle. He has just come from Rio Janeiro, where he spent two months in a hospital.”