Wyseby

OF THE FIKST IRVINGS. 29
horribly still. Ocean, like a giant maddened by tor-
ture, writhes on. But that gallant vessel--she dances
there, her masts bare no longer, but crowded with
broad white sails. Gallantly she bears in for the
shore. Victory to the long-enduring ! How noble
she looks ! — nobler far than if no winds had opposed,
no waves sought to engulf, and no leeward rock-
girt shore denied shelter. So' is it with man on the
sea of life : he who boldly bears on to the true port,
storm defying, is the noblest. Joy, joy to the faith-
ful one ; joy, joy to the brave hearts who man that
vessel. The port is gained. Edith is on the shore
now. The waters of the great deep lave her feet.
The low, inconstant winds, hurrying from the moun-
tain-land to the wild freedom of the waste of waters,
carry her dark locks on their broad wings. For-
ward she bends, her eyes, bright now, fixed on that
bark riding proudly there, ten fathoms from the
shore. " Why comes he not ?" murmured Edith.
" He would watch the shore ; he would observe me."
A form appears on the deck ; — that is not he. An-
other and another, still he comes not. Is he not there
then ? She can brook no longer. " Sailors," she
cried, " know ye oug'ht of Reginald Seaton ?"
Curious were the looks with which the rugged
veterans regarded her, — wonder — awe; but there
was an insolent freedom in his tones who spoke. " He
is here, but lacking leech's skill rather than maiden's
prayers, methinks."
"111! — ill!'' murmured Edith, pressing forward,
regardless of the depths before.
" Hold !" shouted the veteran.
It is too late. The arms of the billows fold over
her. A few 1 seconds, and she had slept eternally in
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