The cabin of that little packet was small, deep, and dark, and lighted even in the day by a tiny lamp nailed against the wall. In this low cabin, by the side of the narrow coffin-like berth, sat a pale and ghastly little woman, clothed in a black dress and simple cap, whom you would never recognise to be Hagar. Upon the berth lay two sleeping infants, of nearly twelve months old. She leans heavily with both elbows upon the side of the berth, and supports her drooping head upon her hands. She has sat thus for hours, while the tempest has raged above and around her. She will probably sit there for hours longer unless the children wake, or some one enters to rouse her from her dreamy trance. She does not hear the howling wind, though it beats among the ice-bound and rattling sails and ropes, a thundering accompaniment to its fierce song. She does not see the snow, though it has nearly blocked up the narrow gangway leading down into her cabin. She does not feel the penetrating and piercing cold, though her hands are purple, stiff, and numb. Towards the evening, Gusty May entered the cabin. “How are you now, Hagar, and how are the children?” inquired he, coming up to her side. She did not seem to see or hear him. He repeated his question earnestly. She raised her pallid brow and straining glance, and answered, mechanically,— “Well—we are well.” “Do the children fatigue you, Hagar? You look so weary; why do you not call me to help to take care of them when they tire you?” “They never tire me,” replied Hagar. “Have they brought you any dinner, Hagar? I really do not believe they have. No!—and your fire has been suffered to go out, while I have been on deck all day helping to work the vessel or clear the deck. What a thing it is to see a poor, dear sick girl, with two children, on the water in such a scuttled tub as this bark, without even a female attendant!” So lamenting, Gusty bustled about, replenished the fire, and going to a locker, brought out a glass of cordial and a cracker, which he compelled her to swallow, saying, “It is a ‘round, unvarnished’ truth that, if I were not here to kindle your fire and to hold a morsel to your lips, you would starve to death, Hagar! I wonder how long this dreadful apathy is going to last!” Then setting away the glass and plate, he went to shovelling away the snow from the gangway. “Passengers for Heath Hall!” sang out a voice from above. Gusty dropped the shovel and rushed up on deck. Hagar, her children, and himself, were certainly the only passengers for Heath Hall. After an absence of five minutes he returned. “Hagar! rouse yourself, now, dear Hagar, and answer me; we are nearly opposite to _Heath Hall_!” The sound of that name was sufficient to arouse her. “Speak on, Gusty, I am neither dead, deaf, asleep, nor crazy, Gusty, though I must often seem to you to be one or the other. Well, what were you saying about Heath Hall?”