Days passed away--slowly at first, then more rapidly--and in a week or ten days the Countess received a long letter from Johnny just before his embarkation; enclosed was a note to Florence, in which he again declared his undying love, and faith; it was written in high spirits, and more than anything tended to raise those of Florence; after all it was but a year or two, and then they would meet again. She began to look and feel bright once more; yet all her flippancy and flirtation were for ever gone, as the young peer John Ravensworth had been so jealous of found to his cost when he next met her. The day after the arrival of the letter, the newspapers announced that H. M. S. "Recluse" had sailed from Southampton for Calcutta, with a company of soldiers and several young officers. As all regrets were vain now, Lady Florence ceased to grieve over the unhappy circumstance that had driven them apart for so long, and amused herself by following in her mind the voyage of the gallant ship that bore him she loved so far away. She knew too he was thinking of her, and when at evening she watched the western star she often fancied how he was perhaps gazing on the selfsame planet, and it seemed as if an electric chain bound them together whilst severed so far. Often when at night the wind whistled shrill through the lofty towers,--when, too, the equinoctial gales roared amid the surrounding woods, strewing the ground with summer's leafy honours, or whirling the broken boughs across the park,--she would quail in heart, as she thought how one she loved was tost on the angry billow, whilst the fine vessel was like a cockleshell on the hissing surge, then she would lift her heartfelt prayer, as she lay on her wakeful couch--to Him in whose hand is the broad ocean, who in the wildest turmoil can say, Peace, be still! and commend her lover to his sleepless care. The Countess was agreeably surprised to see how well her friend kept her plighted faith, and she had no reason to fan the flame, which seemed to grow brighter and brighter every moment. She often used to walk with her, and lead her mind gently and unostensibly to better things than the light, and, if harmless, certainly useless frivolities in which she had so long shone the admired of all; indeed her own inclinations were little bent towards such amusements now. Before her parting with John she had been like a child, happy in some fair garden, chasing the butterfly from flower to flower, careless of all save the present moment, forgetful of the past, heedless of the future, without aim or object save pleasure. Now it was as if some one had pointed out the shining light, as did Evangelist to the Pilgrim--now she cared not how soon she left idle follies; she had something to live for, something to aim at, something to think on as a spur to future progress. The past was as a reminder a noble prize was in view, and she pressed forward to obtain it. The change of mind produced