Gently the Sea-flower tapped at her brother’s door, but receiving no answer, she ventured in; the room was in the same order in which she had left it the day before, for she took great pleasure in arranging the flowers upon his dressing table, and no one could impart such a coziness, arranging everything to his mind, as could Sea-flower.  The bed had not been disturbed, and the book from which she had read to him, was lying thereon, opened at those beautiful verses of “The Iris of the Deep,” which he loved so well to hear her read.  What could it mean?  Calmly her breath came and went; but for that she appeared like a beautiful piece of statuary, her eyes turned upward, as if seeking for strength to meet the vague sense of desolation which was creeping into her heart.  Upon the table were two notes, one addressed to her mother, the other to herself, in his hand-writing.  With nerveless hand she broke the seal; no emotion was visible, save the delicate glow upon her cheek, which came and went, and the playing of the muscles about her compressed lips, as she read the following: 

“My Sister—­When you read this, I shall be far away, sailing over those glorious billows which you and I love so well!  You will miss me, for I know you love your erring brother, with all his faults; and even you, who can realize what were my heart’s desires, will hardly forgive the step which brings such deep grief upon our mother; yet you will think of me with kindness, for I know it cannot be otherwise.  There is no spot within your heart of love which is not occupied.  Could I have left home with a mother’s blessing, I should be happier; but she will pray for her boy; the gentle breeze which fills our sail will bear her “God bless you” to the ear of him who will think of the dear ones at home, until he shall once more fill his place in that dearest of family circles, and thank God, my mother has such an one as you to lean upon.  Farewell, dear Sea-flower, until we meet again.  Brother Harry.”

He had gone!  Could it be possible?  How could she speak those cruel words to her mother?  Yet it must be.  With steady step she entered the drawing-room; the mother looked upon her child.  That which she would speak failed to give utterance.  Instinctively soul sympathized with soul.

“Mother, we will breathe our morning supplication to Him who ordereth all things;” and the Sea-flower, at that family altar, prayed that strength might be given them, that they might be prepared for whatever was to be their portion, and her prayer was heard.  Arising, Mrs. Grosvenor sank into a chair; with an agitated voice she spoke,—­

“My child, some dreadful thing has occurred!  My son,—­tell me, has he gone? for the same mysterious power which bade me impress upon his mind last night, the value of the instructions, which, I pray God, I have not been unfaithful in setting before him, tells me I shall not see my boy again for many long days!  Speak, my child, is it not so?”