"Is--is it true, mother?" said Julia, as the town with its docks and shipping seemed to be growing less and less, while the Isle of Wight, and the land on their right looked dim and clouded over. The sun still shone, but it seemed to be watery and cold; there was a chill upon the sea, and though there was a great deal of hurrying to and fro among the sailors and soldiers as the cumbered decks were being cleared, it was to Mrs Hallam and her child as if a dead silence had fallen, and the noises of the ship and creaking of block and spar were heard from a distance. Thisbe was seated near where they two stood by the bulwark, gazing towards the shore. Thisbe felt no desire to watch the retiring land, for her heart was very low, and she found rest and solace in shedding one salt tear now and then, and wiping it away with her glove. Unfortunately, Thisbe's glove was black, and the dye in her glove not being fast, the effect was strange. "I'm a fool to cry," she said to herself; "but he might have had as good manners as his master, and said `good-bye.'" Thisbe must have been deeply moved, or she would not have sat there upon a little box that she would not let out of her hands, probably on account of its insecurity, for it was tied up with two different kinds of string. "It seems to me," continued Julia, "as if it were all some terrible dream." "But one that is to have a happy waking, Julie." "Poor grandma! she looked as if it would kill her," said Julia, sobbing gently. "Hush!" cried Mrs Hallam, grasping her child's arm as a spasm of pain ran through her, and her face grew deadly pale. "We must think of one who, in pain and suffering, was dragged from his wife and child--forced to suffer the most terrible degradations. He is waiting for us, Julie-- waiting as he has waited all these years. We must turn our backs upon these troubles, and think only of him. Be firm, my child, be firm." There was almost a savage emphasis in Mrs Hallam's words as she spoke. "I'll try, dear; but, grandpa!" sobbed Julie, as she laid her arm upon the bulwark and her face upon it, that she might weep unseen; "shall we never see him and the pleasant old garden again?" "Julie, this is childish," whispered Mrs Hallam. "Remember, you are a woman now." "I do," cried the girl quickly; "but a woman must feel grief at parting from those she loves." "Yes, but it must not overbear all, my child. Come, we must not give way now. Let us go below to our cabin." "No," said Julia; "I must watch the shore till it is dark. Not yet, not yet. Mother, I thought Sir Gordon liked us--was a very, very great friend?" "He is; he always has been." "But he parted from us as if it was only for a day or two. He did not seem troubled in the least." Mrs Hallam was silent.