Thanking him for his kind consideration at such a time, Agnes inquired anxiously of the two gentlemen whether they were not to accompany her.

“No;” was the reply of Mr. Cameron.  “I fear we must be separated, but only I trust for a time.  This boat is not sufficiently large to hold more than the lady passengers and the sailors who are to manage it.  We are to embark, as soon as you are safely off, in another, but as both will steer for the same shore, and keep near each other as much as possible, I trust, by the mercy of Providence, we shall meet again on =terra firma=.

“Yes,” responded the minister, who had been for a moment silent, and his clear voice sounded like the spirit of peace above the roaring flames and raging billows, “we are steering, I trust, for the same shore, and should we never meet again on earth, may it be our happy lot to greet each other in the haven of eternal rest, haven to take the shipwrecked in.”

Agnes’s heart was for a moment too full to speak, but controlling herself, she said to Mr. Cameron in a hurried whisper, “If anything should happen to me, and you again behold my friends, tell them, oh, tell them, that my last thoughts were for them; tell them not to lament for me, for I shall be at rest, but, oh, I charge, I implore them to meet me in heaven!”

A burst of tears closed the sentence; she could no longer restrain her feelings.

“We must leave you now, my dear child,” said Mr. Cameron, after promising compliance with her request.  “May heaven bless and help you.”

“And may He who holds the winds and the waves in the hollow of his hand, preserve you, and all, through the hours of this terrible night,” was the solemn ejaculation of Mr. Dunseer, as pressing for the last time her hand, the final order was given, the boat pushed out from the side of the burning vessel, and she was left in the midst of strangers; strangers personally, yet linked together by the sympathy arising from mutual danger.

CHAPTER VII.

“Letters from home at last,” said Arthur Bernard, as he entered the private salon of an hotel, located in a pretty town in the south of France.

“I had begun to think our friends had quite forgotten us,” he continued, addressing his sister, who, seated in a recess formed by a large bow-window, had been anxiously watching for his return.

“You have not opened any of them yet,” she said, as she came eagerly forward to receive her share.

“No;” was the reply.  “I knew how anxiously you were waiting, and hastened that we might read them together.”

“Always thoughtful, dear brother, of my comfort, you quite spoil me,” said Ella, with an affectionate smile, but in a tone, whose subdued sound, proved a striking contrast to her former vivacity.

For the next few moments silence reigned in the apartment, for each were busily engaged in perusing their respective epistles.