It would be their first protracted separation, and Catherine was sad enough when its necessity was announced to her.  But all preparations were hastened; and, at the close of the week, they were standing together in the dining-room, the last trunk locked, and the carriage waiting at the door that was to convey Willis to the steamer.

“And mind you do not get ill in my absence, Kate,” he said, as he smoothed back her beautiful hair, and looked down fondly in her face.  “If you are very good, as they tell children, I will send you the most charming present you can conceive of, or that Paris can offer, for the anniversary of our wedding-day.  Too bad that we shall be separated, for the first time; but three months will soon pass away.”

And Catherine smiled through the tears that were trembling in her eyes, at the half sad, half playful words; and a wifelike glance of trustfulness told how very dear he was.

There is nothing very romantic nowadays in a voyage to Europe.  It has become a commonplace, everyday journey.  You step to the deck of the steamer with less fear and trembling of friends than was once bestowed on a passage down the Hudson, and before you are fairly recovered from the first shock of sea-sickness, you have reached the destined port.  But, for all that, longing eyes watch the rapid motion of the vessel as it lessens in the distance, and many a prayer is wafted to its white sails by the sighing night-wind.  There are lonely hours to remind one that the broad and silent sea is rolling between us and those we love, and we know that it is sometimes treacherous in its tranquillity.

It is then we bless the quiet messengers that come from afar to tell us of their well-being—­when, the seal, with its loving device, is pressed to trembling lips, and the well-known hand recalls the form of the absent one so vividly.  So, at last, the long-looked-for letters came with tidings of the safe arrival of Mr. Grant at his destination, and the hope that his return would be more speedy than had been anticipated.  A month passed slowly away, and little Gertrude had been her mother’s best comforter in absence.  Every day some new intelligence lighted her bright eyes, and Catherine could trace another token of resemblance to the absent one.  But, suddenly, the child grew ill, and the pain of separation was augmented as day by day the mother watched over her alone.

It was her first experience of the illness of childhood, and it required all her strength and all her calmness to be patient, while sitting hour after hour with the moaning infant cradled in her arms, unable to understand or relieve its sufferings, and tortured by the dull look of apathy which alone answered to her fond or despairing exclamations.  She had forgotten that the birthday of the infant was so near—­that first birthday—­and the anniversary which they had twice welcomed so joyfully.  At last the crisis came; the long night closed in drearily,