“Well, mother!”

There was something quite pathetic in the appealing look and voice.’

“Well, father,” she answered in subdued tones; “all we can do now is to leave it.”

LEAVE IT!

Those were words often in that woman’s mouth, and they expressed that habit of her life which made her victorious over all troubles, that habit of trust in the Infinite Will that actually could and did leave every accomplished event in His hand, without murmur and without conflict.

If there was any one thing in her uniformly self-denied life that had been a personal ambition and a personal desire, it had been that her son should have a college education.  It was the center of her earthly wishes, hopes and efforts.  That wish had been cut off in a moment, that hope had sunk under her feet, and now only remained to her the task of comforting the undisciplined soul whose unguided utterances had wrought the mischief.  It was not the first time that, wounded by a loving hand in this dark struggle of life, she had suppressed the pain of her own hurt that he that had wounded her might the better forgive himself.

“Dear father,” she said to him, when over and over he blamed himself for his yesterday’s harsh words to his son, “don’t worry about it now; you didn’t mean it.  James is a good boy, and he’ll see it right at last; and he is in God’s hands, and we must leave him there.  He overrules all.”

When Mrs. Pitkin turned from her husband she sought Diana in her room.

“Oh, cousin! cousin!” said the girl, throwing herself into her arms. “Is this true?  Is James gone?  Can’t we do any thing?  Can’t we get him back?  I’ve been thinking it over.  Oh, if the ship wouldn’t sail! and I’d go to Salem and beg him to come back, on my knees.  Oh, if I had only known yesterday!  Oh, cousin, cousin! he wanted to talk with me, and I wouldn’t hear him!—­oh, if I only had, I could have persuaded him out of it!  Oh, why didn’t I know?”

“There, there, dear child!  We must accept it just as it is, now that it is done.  Don’t feel so.  We must try to look at the good.”

“Oh, show me that letter,” said Diana; and Mrs. Pitkin, hoping to tranquilize her, gave her James’s note.  “He thinks I don’t care for him,” she said, reading it hastily.  “Well, I don’t wonder!  But I do care!  I love him better than anybody or anything under the sun, and I never will forget him; he’s a brave, noble, good man, and I shall love him as long as I live—­I don’t care who knows it!  Give me that locket, cousin, and write to him that I shall wear it to my grave.”

“Dear child, there is no writing to him.”

“Oh, dear! that’s the worst.  Oh, that horrid, horrid sea!  It’s like death—­you don’t know where they are, and you can’t hear from them—­and a four years’ voyage!  Oh, dear! oh, dear!”

“Don’t, dear child, don’t; you distress me,” said Mrs. Pitkin.