The day was very bright, and there was a ceaseless pleasure in watching the ripples of the sea as they rose into the cold silvery sunlight and then passed on into the shadow of the ship; or in tracing far away, the broad even track marked by edges of tiny bubbles, where the vessel’s course had been.  Gradually she became aware through her abstraction of a greater stir and buzz of conversation on the deck behind her; she turned, and seeing everybody looking in one direction, rose and looked too.  A lady standing beside her said,

“It is the Cunard steamer for New York.  We think there are some friends of ours on board, but I am afraid we shall not pass near enough to find out.”

“Oh, how I wish we could!” Lucia answered, now thoroughly roused, for the idea that Maurice also might be on board suddenly flashed into her mind.

She leaned forward over the railing of the deck, and caught sight of the ‘India’ coming quickly in the opposite direction, and could even distinguish the black mass of her passengers assembled like those of the ‘Atalanta’ to watch the passing vessel.  But that was all.  Telescopes and even opera-glasses were being handed from one to another, but she was too shy to ask for the loan of one, though she longed for it, just for a moment.  Certainly it would have been useless.  At that very time Maurice, standing on the ‘India’s’ deck, was straining his eyes to catch but one glimpse of her, and all in vain.  Fate had decided that they were to pass each other unseen.

But this little incident made Lucia sadder and more dreamy—­more unlike herself—­than before.  The voyage was utterly monotonous.  In spite of the season, the weather was calm and generally fine; and they made good progress.  The days when an unbroken expanse of sea lay round them were not many, and on the second Sunday afternoon land was already in sight.  That day was unusually mild.  Mrs. Costello and Lucia came up together about two o’clock, and, after walking up and down for some time, they sat down to watch the distant misty line which they might have thought a cloud on the horizon, but which was gradually growing nearer and more distinct.

While they sat, a single bird came flying from the land.  Its wings gleamed like silver in the sunlight, and as it came, flying now higher, now lower, but always towards the ship, they saw that it was no sea-bird, but a white pigeon—­pure white, without spot or tinge of colour, like the glittering snow of Canada.  It came quite near—­it flew slowly and gracefully round the ship—­two or three times, it circled round and round, and at last alighted on the rigging.  There it rested, till, as the sunlight quite faded away and the distant line of land disappeared, it took flight again and vanished in the darkness.