“Meanwhile the party who was suspected to have benefited most largely by the shipwreck, went about her daily occupations with her usual subdued and poverty-stricken air.  There was nothing in Abigail Lassiter’s dress or manner to indicate the slightest improvement in her worldly circumstances.  She toiled as earnestly, dressed as simply, and lived as sparingly as ever.  But quietly and almost imperceptibly a vast change was wrought in the aspect of her dwelling.  It was carefully repaired and considerably enlarged, a small piece of pasture land was bought, and then a handsome Alderney cow made her appearance.  A garden of some extent, at the rear of the cottage, was next laid out, and stocked, and last of all a commodious spring cart and clever cob were seen on the little homestead.  But comfort there was none.  An invisible hand fought against its inmates.  Their career of success was closed.  A curse and not a blessing was henceforth to track them.  On a sudden the husband, Mark Lassiter, was betrayed in one of his smuggling expeditions, encountered the coast-guard where he least expected them, was fired at, captured, and died in jail of his wounds.  The eldest son—­’Black Ben,’ the pugilist—­killed his man, was accused of foul play, and compelled to fly the country.  Robin, second mate of a merchant vessel then lying in Hull Docks, still remained to her, and him she hastily summoned home for counsel.  Vain precaution!  A final separation had already taken place between them.  While wondering at his tardy movements, a brief unfeeling letter apprised her that, ’returning to his ship at midnight decidedly the worse for liquor,’ Robin Lassiter had missed his footing on the narrow plank connecting the vessel with the shore, fallen into deep water, and had sunk to rise no more.

“These successive bereavements paralyzed her.  For the first time the idea seems to have presented itself, that it was possible adversity might overwhelm her.  She confined herself rigidly to her home; said that the moan of the sea wearied and worried her, and blocked up every window which looked upon the ocean! For hours she would sit, abstractedly, in silence.  Then, wringing her hands, would wake up with a wistful cry, and repeat—­’Wrong never comes right!  Wrong never comes right!’

“Much as I knew she hated religion, its ministers, its sanctuary, and every object which, by possibility, could remind her that there was a coming future, I yet felt it my duty to make another and a third attempt at an interview.  She received me ungraciously enough, but not insolently.  Her fair, soft, feminine features betrayed evident annoyance at my visit, but still there was an absence of that air of menace and hatred which characterized her in former days.

“‘You visit me?’ was her inquiry; ‘why?’

“’To condole with you on the ravages which death has made in your family.’

“Her reply was instant and firmly uttered.