"Nay, John, you know it well. I have told you before, that as long as I know that Will Laud is living, or at least until I know that he is dead, I will never marry any other man." "But you must know, Margaret, the dangerous life he leads, and the precarious tenure by which that life is held, subject as it is to all the perils of the sea." "Alas! I know it well; but there is a God who governs and directs all things for good, and I hope still that the day of grace and penitence may arrive, in which, though fickle as he now is, he may be altered and improved. Nothing is impossible; and as long as life lasts, so long will I have hope." "But your hopes, Margaret, may be blighted--it may be that the sea itself may devour him." "It may be so. It will require something more than the bare report of such a calamity to convince me of the fact, even though years should bring no tidings of him." "But if you should have the truth asserted by one who should chance to see him perish, would that be sufficient proof?" "No, sir, no! Except I know from my own sight, or from the most positive evidence of more than one, I could not trust to it." "But if you were at last convinced of his death, might I then hope?" "It will be time to speak to me of that if God should grant me life beyond that dreadful time; but, now that I think of your kindheartedness, and know how unwilling you are to give unnecessary pain, I begin to fear that you have some melancholy tidings to communicate. Speak, John, speak!--your manner is unusual, and your conversation is too ominous. Have you heard anything of Laud? Pray speak, and tell me at once." This was more than the youth could at once perform. He had been so carried away by his own passion, that he had not foreseen the effect which his own unwelcome tidings might occasion. He now heartily wished that he had left it for others to communicate. He hesitated, looked painfully distressed, and was disconcerted at his own precipitancy. "I know, John, by your manner, that you have something to tell me, though you seem afraid to utter it. Tell me the worst, tell me the worst!" "Margaret, I own that I have been too abrupt. My own hopes have made me overlook the shock I know you will experience; but I had really no intention of giving you pain. The worst is, that which I have often thought would come to pass--Will Laud is dead!" "How do you know that?" "I saw him myself this very morning." "Where? where?" "At Bawdsey Ferry." "How knew you it was Laud?" "My brother saw his boat coming ashore in the gale last night, saw it driven upon the rocks inside the bar, and smashed to pieces. Laud, with three others, was cast on the shore quite dead. My brother sent me word with the morning's light. I would not even trust to his report, so I went to Bawdsey and saw him. I then hastened to be the first to convey the intelligence to you. Forgive me, Margaret, that my selfish thoughts should have made me forget your feelings."