In the mean time, the ship made a prosperous voyage to her destined port.  Eugene’s mother received a letter from him, in which he lamented the precipitancy of his departure.  The voyage had given him time for sober reflection.  If Annette had been unkind to him, he ought not to have forgotten what was due to his mother, who was now advanced in years.  He accused himself of selfishness, in only listening to the suggestions of his own inconsiderate passions.  He promised to return with the ship, to make his mind up to his disappointment, and to think of nothing but making his mother happy—­“And when he does return,” said Annette, clasping her hands with transport, “it shall not be my fault if he ever leaves us again.”

The time approached for the ship’s return.  She was daily expected, when the weather became dreadfully tempestuous.  Day after day brought news of vessels foundered, or driven on shore, and the coast was strewed with wrecks.  Intelligence was received of the looked-for ship having been seen dismasted in a violent storm, and the greatest fears were entertained for her safety.

Annette never left the side of Eugene’s mother.  She watched every change of her countenance with painful solicitude, and endeavoured to cheer her with hopes, while her own mind was racked by anxiety.  She tasked her efforts to be gay; but it was a forced and unnatural gayety:  a sigh from the mother would completely check it; and when she could no longer restrain the rising tears, she would hurry away and pour out her agony in secret.  Every anxious look, every anxious inquiry of the mother, whenever a door opened, or a strange face appeared, was an arrow to her soul.  She considered every disappointment as a pang of her own infliction, and her heart sickened under the careworn expression of the maternal eye.  At length this suspense became insupportable.  She left the village and hastened to Honfleur, hoping every hour, every moment, to receive some tidings of her lover.  She paced the pier, and wearied the seamen of the port with her inquiries.  She made a daily pilgrimage to the chapel of Our Lady of Grace; hung votive garlands on the wall, and passed hours either kneeling before the altar, or looking out from the brow of the hill upon the angry sea.

At length word was brought that the long-wished-for vessel was in sight.  She was seen standing into the mouth of the Seine, shattered and crippled, bearing marks of having been sadly tempest-tost.  There was a general joy diffused by her return; and there was not a brighter eye, nor a lighter heart, than Annette’s, in the little port of Honfleur.  The ship came to anchor in the river, and shortly after a boat put off for the shore.  The populace crowded down to the pier-head, to welcome it.  Annette stood blushing, and smiling, and trembling, and weeping; for a thousand painfully-pleasing emotions agitated her breast at the thoughts of the meeting and reconciliation about to take place.