“This fisherman’s daughter must certainly be a very superior person,” he said to himself, as he turned over page after page, observing with the eye of a critic,—­for literature to him had been a familiar study from early youth,—­that the finest passages were the only ones marked, proving, conclusively, that they had been the reader’s favorites.

“Strange to find one like her in so remote and desolate a spot,” and, half-aloud, he read the stanzas, in which he had just opened, smiling as he thought how true they were in this instance.

    “Full many a gem of purest ray serene
    The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
    Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
    And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”

He was interrupted by the clear, sweet tones of a woman’s voice in an adjoining room.

“You will find my chamber quite comfortable, Mrs. Pierce, and I must insist on your sharing it, for there is abundance of room for us both.”

“But I am afraid of discommoding you, my dear young lady, and can easily sleep on board, though I will take advantage of your kindness now, to rest on your bed for a short time.”

“Indeed, my, dear Madam, I assure you, that you will be conferring a favor instead of receiving one, in sharing my apartment, while you remain, for it is such a delight to me to see the face of a countrywoman in this, the land of my exile.”

“How long did Mrs. Williamson say it was since you were conveyed here?” inquired Mrs. Pierce.

“Nearly six months.”

“And what a dreary time you must have found it, my dear.”

“No,” said the sweet voice again, that sounded like music to the ear of the unintentional listener; “No,” she repeated, “I have felt tolerably contented with my lot, and but for the remembrance of my friends and the sorrow they must have endured on my account, thinking, as they certainly must, that a watery grave has been my portion,—­but for such remembrances I should have been comparatively happy.  But you will never sleep,” she added playfully, “if I go on chattering in this manner, so I will leave you to your much needed repose.”

At this moment, the outer door of the cottage opened, and the Captain, accompanied by Mr. Williamson and his daughter, whom he had met as he was returning from the ship, entered the room, and a mutual introduction to Mr. Clifford took place.

The Captain, as he named “Ellen Williamson,” looked roguishly at Mr. Clifford, who returned his glance with an equally amused smile, but one that the Captain could not comprehend.  Not sorry to find he was in the right, and with a little mischievous pleasure, as he imagined his friend’s discomfiture, when the fair stranger,—­for such from her conversation she evidently was,—­should make her appearance, Ernest’s eyes were riveted at the door, which communicated with an inner apartment, and at length his patient watching was rewarded.