“And is it really thus?” asked Natalie; “can it be that my mother has been looking down upon me, from her home in the skies?”

“Your sainted mother is in heaven,” spake Mr. Alboni.

The Sea-flower glanced towards her from whom she had ever received a mother’s tenderness; there was a smile upon her countenance, yet Natalie observed, though she would fain be happy that her loved one was restored to her kindred, undoubtedly an advantageous discovery in every point of view, it was like an arrow to her heart; for was she not her child?  Natalie arose, and giving one hand to her mother, the other to him whom she would henceforth look upon as a father, she said,—­“Yes, my own mother has gone to her home; she is an angel there, where I shall meet her at the last; but you, my mother, can never be less dear to me; I must always look upon you as my mother!” and throwing her arms about Mrs. Grosvenor’s neck, she exclaimed, “though others shall claim me by the ties of kindred, they never shall part me from you; your child will never forsake you!”

It was enough; the widowed mother was not “written childless.”  Then it was that Mrs. Grosvenor related every minute particular in regard to the child’s discovery, and how she had been a blessing to them all, repaying them doubly for their care.  It was a long and interesting story, to which this little circle listened, regardless of the raging elements without, with the exception of the Sea-flower, who drank in every note of nature’s mighty chorus, scarcely thinking of the perils to which those who were riding at the mercy of the waves, might be exposed; for her young heart shrank not from ocean’s awe; she had always looked upon an ocean grave as a hallowed place of burial.

“And your daughter’s name was Natalie,” remarked Mr. Delwood; “it is a singular coincidence that the child should be named for the mother.”

“It is all a miracle,” said Harry, “and sometimes I have thought old Vingo not far out of the way, when he declared ’Missy Sea-flower to have been left upon the beach by no other than the Lord.’”

Gradually Mr. Alboni came to be like himself again.  He was a remarkably handsome man, his countenance denoting his generosity of heart.  His delight in the society of the Sea-flower, as she pointed out to him each day, some new attraction about her island home, knew no bounds.  It was now that Mr. Alboni directed his attention to his unsettled affairs in Italy.  Had he lived out his days as the unknown artist, without discovering an heiress to his vast estates, he would probably never have given the subject a thought, and strangers, or some public institution, would have realized a handsome legacy; but his every nerve thrilled now with new life for her; every advantage which wealth could procure would be hers.  But it was not only to look after his pecuniary affairs that he laid the question before Mrs. Grosvenor, if her child should accompany him to the land of her