It was the last night in which these maidens, Winnie and Natalie, might pour out to each other the fulness of their hearts.  The last, did we say, the last? distance would separate them ere another sunset, and ocean would intervene; yet we have said,—­the last.  Folded in each other’s arms, they sat in the pale moonlight, each reading within the other’s soul, an appreciation of this holy hour.  Holy hours are they indeed, which lead our thoughts far up beyond this mortal sphere, pointing us to other than earth’s vanities.  Beautiful, yet so unlike, they were; and ah, what is more beautiful than maiden purity?  Woman,—­she fell, yet her name will ever stand foremost in the ranks of all that is exalting.

“And who will there be to love me, when you are gone?  Who will talk with me so gently, and keep my feet from the dangerous paths which surround me?” asked Winnie, as the discordant tones of Mrs. Santon’s voice stole in upon their quietude, from an adjoining apartment.

“If there is anything in this beautiful world of ours which can make me sad, it is the parting from those whom I love; yet I know it is but for a little while.  Dear Winnie, can you realize how kind our Father is, that he has given us the promise of a home where there will be no more parting,—­never a farewell? and he will guide your footsteps; make him your friend, and though all others should forsake you, you will be happy.  He will be a better friend to you than ever I have been, and remember, Winnie dear, when I am gone, should sorrow come to you, or bitter trials mark your way, go to our Father for counsel, and he will give you sweet rest.”

Thus did the Sea-flower endeavor to leave upon Winnie’s heart that which should prepare her for meeting the trials which she but too plainly foresaw would be her lot, from the unmotherly spirit evinced by Mrs. Santon.  Blessings on thee, noble girl! would there were more like thee to be found in this sinful world below!  But what is a blessing craved by the lips of frail mortal, compared with the seraph blessings showered upon thy gentle head, from her who is looking down upon her child, as thy voice is raised in prayer to the God of this motherless one, that she may find refuge beneath the shadow of his wing.

The last farewell was spoken by poor Winnie, with an aching heart, Mr. Santon had pressed the Sea-flower’s hand, with a tear in his eye, as if reluctant to let her go, lest the severing of one of the last ties which bound him to happy days, should be too much for his sorrowing heart,—­and she had gone, leaving her impress upon the hearts of all who had met and loved her.  Her spirit was the spirit of love, forgiving as she hoped to be forgiven,—­her sins, which, had it not been said of man, “not one is perfect,” we should have looked upon as of no deeper stains than are of the newly washen lambs, gambolling in fresh pastures of innocence.  Even to Mrs. Santon’s unpardonable slight, in not giving her a parting salutation, pleading one of her timely headaches as an excuse for her non-appearance at the hour of separation,—­the Sea-flower had left for her a kind farewell.