XXXIX.— A CRUSHING BLOW 363 XL.— STELLA’S MENTAL AGONY 371 XLI.— REHEARSING THE PAST 382 XLII.— THE LAWYER’S REBUKE 393 XLIII.— “GOD BLESS OUR STAR.” 403 XLIV.— FAITH’S TRIUMPH 414 STELLA ROSEVELT. CHAPTER I. ON THE ATLANTIC. “A star Which moves not ’mid the moving heavens alone, A smile among dark frowns—a gentle tone Among rude voices, a beloved light, A solitude, a refuge, a delight.”—SHELLEY. A noble steamer was laboriously plowing the turbulent waters of the great Atlantic, heaving, and struggling, and creaking with every revolution of her gigantic screw, for the waves were rolling high—“mountain high”—in very truth. The huge dark masses of water would swell and rise up like a great black wall, reaching, it seemed, almost to the angry, leaden sky above, then sweeping down with mighty force, thunder upon the decks of that great vessel, making it shudder to its very center, sending it down, down into the yawning depths, as if eager, in venomous spite, to blot it out of existence. There were very few first cabin passengers on board the —— as she thus labored on her weary way between Liverpool and New York, for it was late in the year, and the rush of travel was over for that season. Fifteen were all they numbered, while there were about twice as many in the steerage; and well it was that there were no more to share the horrors of that dreadful voyage. It had been a very gloomy passage, a severe storm arising the second day out, which had increased in violence until now—the fifth day—it appeared as if all the elements had conspired to work destruction upon the stanch ship which was faithfully battling with the cruel waves and toiling to bear its precious freight of human souls safely into port. It was a forlorn little company that sat shivering and trembling in the close saloon—only five, all out of the fifteen who had not succumbed to the seasickness—and these five had the appearance, with their pale, pinched faces, their heavy eyes and disordered attire, of feeling anything but comfortable or well. An old man of perhaps sixty years, his hair and beard white as snow, his face sallow and wrinkled, his eyes anxious and sunken, sat upon the floor—indeed, it was impossible to sit anywhere else—braced against a stationary seat, and clinging to one of the iron posts which supported the roof of the saloon. He was wrapped in a heavy shawl and two elegant rugs; his soft hat was drawn down over his forehead, and he seemed entirely oblivious of everything about him.