"Marion is with me--she is my wife. We have escaped from the sea in peril of our lives--they will tell you I have perished in it--I would I had, but for Marion. Father, you may never hear from me, or of me, again; but again remember, I am innocent--this blood does not stand between God and me. Why this fearful cloud has covered us, He knows who sent it. It may depart yet, in His good time. For this unjust world, farewell, father. We will meet where there are no false accusations--where God himself shall vindicate the right. I become patient--I become trustful. Father, pray--pray that I may live to be cleared of this horror--that the curse may be taken from my name--that I may be acknowledged guiltless. N. R. R." Norman Rutherford's sister was kneeling before his portrait--her clasped hands holding her forehead, her eyes raining hot tears, her soul poured out before God. Norman was _alive_--could be prayed for, hoped for, toiled for. The curse was turned into a blessing. The path was wintry still, and bare, and laborious; but that horrible spectre of blood was gone; and the majestic presence of justice, and the clear rays of hope, were on the way instead. She was able for all labor, all patience, all sorrow in his cause. Norman was innocent. Anna rose at length, folded the precious letters carefully, placed them in her bosom, and then hastily descended the stair, and set out again for the old nurse's cottage, to learn, according to her original intention, the particulars of this dark history there. The Oran moaned no more, but only murmured plaintively, between his banks, the kindly song of home; and Anne, as she passed under the trees, almost with a light heart, murmured to herself the prayer of Alice Aytoun's song--for the wayfaring man. CHAPTER XI.