It was a lovely morning, the sun was unusually bright and warm, and Desclieux left the plant on deck, the glass frame half raised to admit the fresh air and reviving heat, while he, with Louisa and her parents, sat near and enjoyed seeing it expand its pretty leaves, and, as it were, smilingly greet the sun’s rays, which infused into it such genial warmth, and seeming to thank them for their care.  But Desclieux’s brow now kindled with higher thoughts.  In this feeble offset he saw the pretty little starry flowers, then the perfumed berries, and the negroes gathering it abundantly, and then the ocean bearing vessels to France laden, with its produce.  All this he could see in the few small leaves scarcely aboveground.  Enthusiastically did he tell these bright visions to Louisa, and as she kindled in her turn, the coffee-plant became dearer and dearer to her, and she lavished as tender care upon it as she would upon a newborn brother.  She seemed to have common sympathies with it, and if she felt that the heat might be too much for its slender stem, she drew over it little curtains of green silk which she had made expressly for it, just as a tender mother curtains the cradle of her infant.  And then she read to Desclieux and her parents a long account of the coffee of Mocha, and pictured vividly to their imagination the tree to grow out of the nursling whose infancy they watched over.  Sometimes the conversation took a different turn, and the parents of Louisa spoke, as if to an old familiar friend, of their fortune, of their family interests, of their views for the establishment of their only daughter; and Desclieux in return imparted to them his plans.  By degrees these communications led to projects of marriage between him and Louisa.  It was no unpleasing thought to either, and the very day they crossed the line, a declaration was made, and an engagement formed, and it was agreed that their union should take place immediately on their return to France.

We may well think that Louisa became more attached than ever to the plant, now become a source of distinction in which she would one day share:  imagine, then, her consternation when, one morning, she beheld it languishing.  She said nothing, hoping it might revive; but the next morning found its leaves still more withered.  She did not trust herself to speak of it to Desclieux, who also had but too plainly seen it.  At last, the thought occurred to him that whilst in the intense heat of the tropics, the plant would require more water; and therefore poured on it almost his whole allowance.  The effect was immediate in restoring its life and verdure, and Louisa was again happy.  The ship was still some hundreds of leagues from Martinique, when a violent tempest arose, apparently the last of a fearful hurricane which had raged through the Antilles.  It was found that the ship had sprung a leak; the pumps were not sufficient:  they were in imminent danger, and the necessity of lightening the vessel was so urgent