At length the wearying and wearied wind lulled. At last fine weather, with a fair southerly breeze, succeeded, and on the fifth of April the Petrel entered Chesapeake Bay; and the next day at sunset she dropt anchor off Brande’s Headland. It was with the deepest emotion that Lord Montressor gazed upon the spot that had become the chosen retreat of Estelle. The setting sun shone full against the yellow sandy beach, the gray, rocky bank, and flecked with golden light the tender spring foliage of the oak trees that surrounded and half concealed the old stone house upon the summit. With the profoundest interest he contemplated the scene. That mansion was her home. There she lived, suffered and endured. There, from some hidden covert, she had undoubtedly wept and watched for, and gazed upon his form; while he, unconscious of her proximity, had, gun in hand, wandered through the woods and fields and moors around the place. Where was she now? In or near that old gray house undoubtedly. But what was she about?—at her lonely tea-table?—in her parlor, reading or meditating?—in the woods, rambling alone?—in the graveyard, ruminating? Where? How would she receive him? Was she, perhaps, that moment thinking of him, if not expecting him? She would be greatly surprised to see him and her father. But would her surprise be altogether one of joy? That she loved him was undoubtedly true. That she loved him more than her own dearest earthly interests, and only less than her Creator, had been proved. But would she now consent to forget her own horrible calamity, and permit him to make her and himself, in his own rational manner, happy? That she had a theory of his future brilliant destiny, which she had resolved not to dim by sharing, he had heard. That she could be as firm as she was disinterested, he had ascertained. Could he, then, be able to convince her, that, to him, _her_ “love was the greatest good in the world?” But, patience—patience. Very soon these questions must be answered—these doubts set at rest. In an hour he should stand face to face with his beautiful, his beloved, his long lost, but now recovered Estelle. Till then, oh, throbbing pulse, be still!—oh, faithful, long-suffering heart, be hopeful! No one was on deck but Barbara and the crew, whom she was ordering to take in sail and let go the anchor. When she perceived her favorite passenger, she came forward smilingly to greet him. “Good-evening, sir. It is a glorious spring evening—the air is as soft and balmy as that of June. You see that we are off the old place again.” “Good-afternoon, Miss Brande. Yes, I see. Will you permit me to inquire how long you will remain here, and whether you will go on shore?” “I shall remain at anchor through the night, and set sail again in the morning. And I will go on shore this evening, for I could almost imagine the poor old place feeling hurt if I passed it,” said Barbara, with one of her earnest smiles.