“It is five o’clock, Gusty, and nearly dark besides, or would be, if it were not for the full moon, helping the twilight.” “It is coming, mother—the boat is coming!” exclaimed Gusty, still keeping his telescope pointed up the river. “It is the Arrow, mother, I can see the name.” The boat bore down rapidly. They turned to descend the steep and slippery sides of the cliff, and stood upon the frozen beach as the boat flew swiftly on. His heart paused as it neared—stood still as it passed. Let _me_ pause here. Reader, notice this party on the cold beach, and now cast a magician’s glance into the cabin of the boat that is passing. In a small state room opening from that cabin, upon the floor by the side of the berth, kneels Rosalia Aguilar, with her face pressed down upon the pillow, with the ends of the pillow held up against her head, to shut out every sight and sound of the shore and home she is passing, which is yet distinctly and fearfully present to her mind’s eye and ear. She sees the village, the dividing river, the heath, with its forest in the background; the promontory, the old Hall, with its broken garden wall and poplar trees; lastly, the beach, and the party on the beach. Emily and Gusty—she knows, she feels, that they are there waiting her—she knows, she feels, that they were there yesterday, and that they will be there to-morrow. She knows, she feels, how they will both wait and wonder—how one will sicken and suffer with “hope deferred”—and ah! reverting to another home upon the banks of a Northern river,—another desolated home, desolated by herself, she sees _another_ bleeding heart and burning brain, as she presses the pillow closer about her ears to shut out sights and sounds that her spirit-eyes and ears must see and hear—how long? Rosalia was not one to enjoy a single hour’s impunity in singing—yet she went on. Behold the insanity of passion that, through all the accumulating anguish of remorse, perseveres in sin! The boat has passed. “Again, mother!” exclaimed Gusty, with a look of deep disappointment. “Yes, and again many times, perhaps, my dear boy! Something detains her; perhaps we shall hear by to-night’s mail,” and they turned to leave the cliff. Gusty saw his mother home, and, without stopping to take supper, hurried off to Churchill Point, to await the arrival of the evening’s mail. He returned in two hours—there was no letter. The next night, and the next, and every night for a week longer, Emily and her son watched for Rosalia in vain. The mail came in twice a week, and every mail-day Gusty was waiting a letter at the post-office, and Emily waiting him at home. At last, one night, Gusty hurried in with a letter. Throwing it in his mother’s lap, he exclaimed, “It is for _you_; open it quick, mother, do; there is something odd about it; a letter addressed in Raymond Withers’s hand, and postmarked Norfolk. What can it mean? Do read it, mother!”