“Sunderland! the Lady Sunderland!  I have seen your mother, Natalie!” exclaimed he.  “It was none other than she, the kind, beautiful lady who sang to me when I was but a child, in Italy; she whom I begged to take me to that beautiful place again!  Ah, it comes to me now, in no dream, but a reality; I have always thought, since I first beheld you, that I had somewhere, at some unknown time, seen a picture which was like you; but, strange, it was none other than the mother of my own dear Sea-flower!”

“And your eyes have looked upon my mother, Clarence,” said she, gazing into his very soul,—­“and she has smiled upon you?  Oh, I shall love you with a holier love for this!” and the young girl paused, and trembled, as he held her to his heart, for the thought came rushing into her soul,—­“Oh, what a fearful thing is this,—­this depth of fervent love!”

The morrow came; came to all of our friends who were gathered around the hearthstone of the widow Grosvenor, with joy, for genial rays, other than of a May morning’s sun, were in their hearts; yet those indescribable tones, which under any circumstances hang around the word—­farewell, were gradually, unawares, jarring, jarring those gentler notes of peace, even before spoken.

“Farewell!”—­the mother strained her child to her heart again, and again put her from her, to embrace her more closely.  Farewell, came welling up from that proud brother’s heart, with the same breath, thanking God for giving him a sister.  Broken sobs measured the bitterness of the parting of those down-trodden ones, who, “by an angel of mercy,” had been lifted up, to taste one drop of that bliss upon earth, which the white man holds within his power to give or withhold.  Farewell!—­was it not that one word, which marked the parting of those two, whose hearts had been united above?  “Adieu to my island home,” said the Sea-flower, and the wild waves whispered,—­“we are lonely.”

CHAPTER XI.

WE ARE GOING HOME.

  “The sounds that fall on mortal ear
     As dew-drops pure at even,
   That soothe the breast, or start the tear,
     Are Mother, Home, and Heaven.

  “A home, that paradise below,
     Of sunshine and of flowers,
   Where hallowed joys perennial flow,
     By calm celestial bowers.”

        ANONYMOUS.

Time wore heavily on with Winnie Santon, after Natalie had left them.  Left as she was, much in her unnatural mother’s society, who seemed to be never more pleased than when she might thwart her designs, or, in some manner act so as to make those about her uncomfortable, it was not to be wondered at, if she did sigh for other days, and a confidant, to whom she might unburden her heart.  Her father spent but a small portion of his time at home; on the contrary, he rather sought to avoid the fireside, which had once been so dear to him.  His feelings, whatever they might have