At last there came a fatal day, when a passage cut from a London newspaper was enclosed to Constance by Audley Trevelyan, who had been constrained to visit and remain in town with his family. It contained distinct details of the total wreck of the _Admiral_, which had foundered in a gale. She had been heavily pooped by successive seas, and had gone down with all on board, save the watch on deck, who had effected their escape in one of the quarter-boats, and been picked up in a most exhausted state, by one of Her Majesty's ships. All the passengers had been drowned in their cabins, and to this account a list of their names was appended. "It is very remarkable, my dear madam," wrote the unconscious Audley, "that I do not find the name of Captain Devereaux borne in this list; though we have all the sorrow to see that of my uncle Richard, Lord Lamorna, whose American trip has been to us all a source of mystery." Constance read the printed list with staring stony eyes, and a heart that stood still! Mr. Downie Trevelyan had perused it carefully too, with the aid of his gold double-eye-glass, and an unfathomable smile had spread over his sleek legal visage while he did so. "Oh, my husband--my Richard--so innocent and true! Gone--gone, and your children and I are left--doomed to shame and sorrow--doomed--doomed!" wailed Constance in a piercing voice, as with her fingers interlaced across her face she cast herself upon a sofa in despair. "Mamma," urged the terrified Sybil, "what _do_ you mean? Does not dear Audley write that papa's name is _not_ in the list; so he cannot have sailed in that unhappy ship." "My poor child, you know not what you say," moaned Constance, without looking or altering her position, for dark and bitter was the desolation of the heart which fell on her. In vain did poor Sybil caress and hang over her in utter bewilderment, and read and re-read Audley's letter without being able to comprehend the agitation of her mother, who answered nothing. For the time she was overwhelmed by the immensity of their calamity--by gloom and speechless sorrow. But one thought was ever present--there was a face she should never more behold--a voice she never more should hear; the great ship going down in the dark; "the passengers drowned in their cabins," by the furious midnight sea; and he who loved her so well, who had crossed the Atlantic to bring back the full and legal proofs of their nuptials, was now in the shadowy land--the Promised Land--where there are neither marriages nor giving in marriage; and where there can be no graves either in the soil or in the sea. With this calamity must many others come!