It is Clarence Delwood! his has been a bitter, bitter draught; yet its dregs have in a measure lost their power, for he has learned that ’t is his Father holds the cup.  Little, did he think, as they sat together there on that high bank, which overlooks the sea, upon that last evening spent with his cherished one in her island home, that it was to be the last forever! that her voice would no more be heard! in glad response to nature’s shouts of joyousness.  Yet, as alone he sits beneath the silent night, there where she last told to him her love, he fancies that the stars in pity smile upon him, and as one more gentle than the rest, leaves its place in the heavens and slowly descends, drawing nearer and nearer, finally resting upon the bosom of ocean,—­he listens, for the music of her harp strikes upon his soul, and in the crested billows which play at his feet, a shining form he sees, her robe all sparkling with the pearly drops of the sea.  He would fain go to her, as she smiles upon him, as was ever her wont, but a voice he hears, saying, “not yet,” and the bright one recedes from his view.

Reader, you may visit Nantucket’s sea-girt isle, you may walk those peaceful shores where she loved to roam; you may meet there that lone man on the shore; you will approach him with feelings of deep regard, not unlike reverence; but do not hesitate to inquire of him for the grave of the Sea-flower.  With eyes fixed upon the ocean’s blue, pointing with his finger heavenward, he will direct you to a grassy mound, at whose head is a weeping willow, upon the broad trunk of which is wrought in letters of pearl,—­“The Sea-flower awaits for thee.”  With a tear you turn away, with the resolve in your heart that you will henceforth so live, as that when this mortal life is ended, you may “attain everlasting joy and felicity, through Jesus Christ, our Lord.”

You will seek the fireside of the widow Grosvenor, where from a mother’s lips, you will be assured of the blessings which accompany a dutiful child.  That fireside is not desolate, for the members of the household have been led to say,—­“Thy will, O Lord, not mine, be done.”  Mrs. Grosvenor, though somewhat advanced in life, still retains that peculiar freshness of her earlier days; and as she proudly glances upon the young man by her side, calling him “my son,” you can hardly recognize in his athletic form the little sailor-boy of other days; yet it is none other, although he has arrived to the dignity of captain, and as Sampson prophesied, a smarter man never sailed the ocean.  But who is this witching beauty at his side, who would fain impress you with a belief that that mischief which will not remain concealed for the briefest period, is not her entire composition?  Do you not mistrust? who other than Miss Winnie Santon? she who having tired of the gallants of the wild West, or rather of their numbers, came to the wise conclusion that a city life was designed for such as she; she the coquettish heiress, who once stood very much in doubt as to the state of civilization among these “poor fishermen.”