An exclamation, which came deep from the heart the governess, and a low and mournful echo from the lips of the divine, interrupted the further expression of his indignation and his wonder. “Captain Bignall,” observed the former, pointing to the tottering form which was leaning on Wilder for support, “on my life, you are mistaken in the character of this lady. It is more than twenty years since we last met, but I pledge my own character for the purity and truth of hers.” “Lead me to the cabin,” murmured Mrs Wyllys. “Gertrude, my love, where are we? Lead me to some secret place.” Her request was complied with; the whole group retiring in a body from before the sight of the spectators who thronged the deck. Here the deeply agitated governess regained a portion of her self-command, and then her wandering gaze sought the meek, concerned countenance of the chaplain. “This is a tardy and heart-rending meeting,” she said, pressing the hand he gave her to her lips. “Gertrude, in this gentleman you see the divine that united me to the man who once formed the pride and happiness of my existence.” “Mourn not his loss,” whispered the reverend priest, bending over her chair, with the interest of a parent. “He was taken from you at an early hour; but he died as all who loved him might have wished. “And none was left to bear, in remembrance of his qualities, his proud name to posterity! Tell me, good Merton, is not the hand of Providence visible in this dispensation? Ought I not to humble myself before it, as a just punishment of my disobedience to an affectionate, though too obdurate, parent?” “None may presume to pry into the mysteries of he righteous government that orders all things. Enough for us, that we learn to submit to the will of Him who rules, without questioning his justice.” “But,” continued the governess, in tones so husky as to betray how powerfully she felt the temptation to forget his admonition, “would not one life have sufficed? was I to be deprived of all?” “Madam, reflect! What has been done was done in wisdom, as I trust it was in mercy.” “You say truly. I will forget all of the sad events, but their application to myself And you, worthy and benevolent Merton, where and how have been passed your days, since the time of which we speak?” “I am but a low and humble shepherd of a truant flock,” returned the meek chaplain, with a sigh. “Many distant seas have I visited, and many strange faces, and stranger natures, has it been my lot to encounter in my pilgrimage. I am but lately returned, from the east, into the hemisphere where I first drew breath; and, by permission of our superiors, I came to pass a month in the vessel of a companion, whose friendship bears even an older date than our own.”