“He knows I forgave him.  I told him so the night he held me to his heart and kissed me; and you never can know how that thought comforts me now.  But mother!  Uncle——­”

She sprang up pale and tearful, but he detained her.

“Mr. Palma writes me that there remains no longer a doubt that Laurance perished in the wreck.  He encloses a detailed account of the disaster, from an American naval surgeon, who was returning home on furlough, when the storm overtook them, and who was one of the few picked up by the West Indian vessel.  Mr. Palma wrote to him, relative to your father, and it appears from his reply—­in my hand—­that he knew the Laurances quite well.  He says that during the gale, he was called to prescribe for Maud, who was really ill, and rendered worse by terror.  When it was evident the steamer could not outlive the storm, he saw Cuthbert Laurance place his wife in one of the boats, and return to the cabin for his sick child.  Hastening back with the little cripple in his arms, he found the boats were beyond reach, and too crowded to admit another passenger.  He shouted the nearest to take his child, only his child; but the violence of the gale rendered it impossible to do more than keep the boat from swamping, and with many others, he was left upon the doomed vessel.  There was no remaining boat; night came swiftly on, the storm increased, and next day there was no vestige of boat or ship visible.  Mrs. Laurance was in the second boat, the largest and strongest, but it was overladen, and about twilight it capsized in the fury of the gale, and all went down.  The surgeon who heard the wild screams of the women knows that the wife perished, and says he cannot indulge the faintest hope that the father and child escaped.  Cuthbert was a remarkably skilful swimmer; he had once contended for a wager off Brighton, with a party of naval officers, and Laurance won it; but none could live in the sea that boiled and bellowed around that sinking ship, and encumbered as he was with the helpless child, it was impossible that he would have survived.  I would rather not tell Minnie now, but Mr. Palma writes that the sister and nephew of General Laurance will force a suit to secure the remnants of the property, and he wishes to anticipate their action.  Come with me, dear.  Minnie is not asleep.  As I passed her door, I heard her walk across the floor.”

“Uncle Orme, can’t you wait till to-morrow?  I do not know how this news will affect her, and I dread it.”

“My dear child, her suspense is destroying her.  After all, delay will do no good.  Poor Minnie!  There is her bell.  She knows the hour our mail is due, and she will ask for letters.”

Opening the door, both paused at the threshold, and neither could ever forget the picture she represented.

In a snowy peignoir, she sat on the side of the couch, with her long waving hair falling in disorder to the marble floor, and seemed indeed like Japhet’s “Amarant”: