There was a long and anxious suspense, during which it became pitch dark, and the ship burned blue lights to mark her position more plainly to the crews that were groping the sea for that beloved passenger.

Captain Hamilton had no doubt that the fate of Staines was decided, one way or other, long before this; but he kept quiet until he saw the plain signs of a squall at hand.  Then, as he was responsible for the safety of boats and ship, he sent up rockets to recall them.

The cutter came alongside first.  Lights were poured on her, and quavering voices asked, “Have you got him?”

The answer was dead silence, and sorrowful, drooping heads.

Sadly and reluctantly was the order given to hoist the boat in.

Then the gig came alongside.  Fitzroy seated in her, with his hands before his face; the men gloomy and sad.

“Gone!  Gone!”

Soon the ship was battling a heavy squall.

At midnight all quiet again, and hove to.  Then, at the request of many, the bell was tolled, and the ship’s company mustered bareheaded, and many a stout seaman in tears, as the last service was read for Christopher Staines.

CHAPTER XIV.

Rosa fell ill with grief at the hotel, and could not move for some days; but the moment she was strong enough, she insisted on leaving Plymouth:  like all wounded things, she must drag herself home.

But what a home!  How empty it struck, and she heart-sick and desolate.  Now all the familiar places wore a new aspect:  the little yard, where he had so walked and waited, became a temple to her, and she came out and sat in it, and now first felt to the full how much he had suffered there—­with what fortitude.  She crept about the house, and kissed the chair he had sat in, and every much-used place and thing of the departed.

Her shallow nature deepened and deepened under this bereavement, of which, she said to herself, with a shudder, she was the cause.  And this is the course of nature; there is nothing like suffering to enlighten the giddy brain, widen the narrow mind, improve the trivial heart.

As her regrets were tender and deep, so her vows of repentance were sincere.  Oh, what a wife she would make when he came back! how thoughtful! how prudent! how loyal! and never have a secret.  She who had once said, “What is the use of your writing? nobody will publish it,” now collected and perused every written scrap.  With simple affection she even locked up his very waste-paper basket, full of fragments he had torn, or useless papers he had thrown there, before he went to Plymouth.