“We are safe,” cried the captain, coming back to their side after a brief absence with the mate.  “Mr. Reyburn, do you see?” But Mr. Reyburn did not even hear.  A soft lustre began to blanch the violet depths of the lofty sky; a rosy flare welled up from the horizon and half drowned the shriveled moon; a star that was steady in the east was shaking a countless host of stars in the shaking waters round them.  And then the rosy flare was a yellow flame that filled the heavens; the long swells that ran up to break against them were like sheets of molten jewels—­rubies and beryls and sapphires and chrysolites, changing and flashing as they broke into a thousand splendors; strange mild-eyed birds were hovering about them and alighting on the wreck; the moon was gone; the vaporous gold that overflowed the east was burned away in the increasing glory, and the sunshine fell about them.

“We are not going down,” cried Lilian, her face aglow and lovely in the light.  “That smoke in the horizon is a steamer’s, and she will take us off.  Oh, John, we have our lives before us yet!”

The captain and Mr. Mason had already signaled the steamer, and before very long the wreck was quite abandoned, and those whom it had carried were on their northward way again.

It was a singular wedding that I saw one day about two months after the wreck of the Beachbird.  I was going by the church of St. Saviour, and being of an inquiring mind in the matter of weddings, I went in.  There were two brides there:  the husband of the first, the fair one, was just turning away with her.  So calm, so pure, so peaceful, so content, were the faces of that new husband and wife, that I could long have looked upon them, as on some picture of strong spirits in the presence of God, had not the beauty of the second bride arrested me.  But that was a beauty one hardly sees twice in a lifetime—­so perfect in outline, under snowy veils and blossoms, the dark eyes so softly, dewily dark, the white brow whiter for its tendril-like rings of raven hair; and where had I ever seen groom so stately, so lofty, so proud?  But what did the pantomime mean? a stranger might well have asked.  Was that the man’s natural demeanor? or had he brought his mind to the task of taking her by an effort that had destroyed every sentiment of his soul but scorn?  And for her?  Had the rose forsaken her cheek and the smile her lip because she looked on life as on a desert?  Was that utter sadness and dejection a thing that should one day fade away and leave a sparkle of hope behind it?  Or was it the scar of one who had played with fire, who had not the strength to release a pledge, and was marrying a man who she knew loathed her and her beauty together?

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE TUSCAN COURT UNDER THE GRAND DUKE LEOPOLD.