Time rolled on! Weeks resolved themselves into months, and months became absorbed in years, yet the circumstances of the wreck, as detailed in the journals of the day, brought no claimant for the girl. As to the stripling, his only relative was that parent whom he had seen meet a watery grave, and he knew that he stood alone in the world, with no one to sympathize with the misery that racked his bosom, save the orphan partner of his perils; and when he looked upon her budding loveliness, thus left to waste neglected, and without the fostering care of maternal watchfulness, he vowed to be to her all that a brother could, or a parent might be. The isolation of his destiny had rendered him an enthusiast upon the one subject of his charge, so that, when in the gay flush of innocent girlhood, she shared his joys and mingled her tears with his, his feelings became concentred in devotion, which the world calls _love_, but for which _affection_, pure as seraphs might glory in avowing, would be the more fitting term. In the absence of other channels to vent his feelings she became the cynosure of his loftiest imaginings, his more than sister. Happy in her youth, and time-seared to the loss she had sustained, _Mary Destraix_ loved her preserver with a sister's tenderness; and when, after the lapse of years, there came one who called himself her uncle—her father's brother—the joy with which she sprang to his embrace was merged in tears, when the probability of her separation from her brother crossed her mind, as the stranger announced his intention of returning with her immediately to the castellated abode of her ancestors, in the sunny plains of Marne. “And Harry—my brother Harry, shall he not go with us?” she asked inquiringly, gazing into the stern face of her new-found relative. The Frenchman turned to the spot, where stood the subject of the query. He had heard the story of the youth, and liked not the question; and as he glanced, not at the noble countenance and manly bearing, but the rustic apparel of the stripling, his dislike to a further intimacy between the pair was increased. The stranger was lord of Marne, and had breathed the courtly air of the Louvre, and he could see nothing worthy of consideration in the mere fact, that a rough and untutored rustic should peril his life for a maiden of noble blood. Tendering the youth a purse well stocked with Louis, he signified his disinclination to rank him among the members of his voyage home. The indignant recipient took the proffered gold, advanced a step, and dashing the gift at the feet of its aristocratic giver, rushed from the scene. “Harry, my noble, generous preserver,” sobbed a voice at his side, as he stood upon the rude piazza that overlooked the ocean, “think not so meanly of me, as that for broad lands and empty honors I would forsake you! Harry, my brother, I will not go!”