he could that they might find their way to her brain without startling her. 'You are home and with me; we are both safe. When the storm came I sat here till I could bear to hear it no longer, knowing that you were out upon the sea. I do not know the time—it may have been at Ave Maria or later—that the horror of the thought grew too great for me to sit here and endure it. I was in safety, warm beside the hearth that you had made for me; and you were there alone in the dark on the waters. I got up and I went out. I could see nothing for the rain, I could hear nothing for the wind; I could only tell that out at sea the night was terrible. I lighted your lantern, and I walked on and on, on and on, making for the shore as well as I could guess. You had told me certain landmarks, and by the lantern light I could avoid the bogs and the trunks of the trees. Still I think I must have been a long time getting to the shore. It seemed to me the whole night—perhaps it might be less than an hour—I cannot say. I could hear a minute-gun far away over the waters; and I knew you were out at sea, unless by Heaven's mercy you had had some warn-