birth, but that she might become acquainted with the position in life which she was every way capable of filling.  And so it was arranged that Natalie, with her grandfather, should make the tour of the eastern world, whither Mr. Delwood should accompany them.  After disposing of Mr. Alboni’s estates, and visiting the lions of the East, they would return, to make America their home; and it being left for Natalie to decide what spot should be chosen as their future home, she said, stealing a glance towards Clarence Delwood,—­“we will return to my mother’s peaceful island home, for we can be happy here.”

Accordingly the day was fixed when they should depart, but the very evening before they would sail, brought news to Mr. Delwood of the dangerous, and probably fatal illness of his father.  It was with a sad heart that he looked upon such a separation from his betrothed, for he would necessarily resign the pleasure which he had anticipated, in escorting her to countries which he had visited, and which had become dear to him.  It was a great disappointment also to Natalie; yet she sought to persuade him it was for the best; “she would soon return, and the separation would bring a thrice joyful meeting.”

It was a glorious evening; the soft moonlight kissed the white sea-caps, as each strove to lift its head above its fellows, as if to gaze upon night’s purity,—­or, mayhap, they would beckon that gentle one, who smiled upon their wild joy, as she reclined upon her lover’s breast, to join them, in their revellings.  Upon the broad bank of the old South Shore they sat,—­a favorite resort of the youth and maidens of this little island of a mid-summer’s eve,—­old Sankoty to the eastward, lifting high his head, imparting a flood of radiance in pity to thousands, who watch with an intensity, to make the well-known light, rejoicing no less when they have left it far behind, for well do they realize that they have passed one of the most dangerous shoals to be found on the American coast.  Behind them, distance about three miles, is the town; there is no din and bustle borne on the night air to their ears,—­naught is heard but the moaning voice of the night wind, mingled with the ceaseless roar of the ocean.  Here, far from the world’s contumely, no eye to see, no ear to hear, save that of Him who is omnipresent, were those vows of love renewed, and registered above.  Many a fair maiden has here since plighted her faith, here given her hand to the loved one of her choice, (heaven bless the union of Nantucket’s fair ones!) yet the night has never since looked down upon two of more perfect oneness of heart, than those of whom this serene night bore witness.

“And will you still retain your foster-name?” asked Delwood, “or will you travel under your grandfather’s Italian name?  By the way, I have not heard the name of your father.”

“Paul Sunderland was my father’s name.”