Only a few days had Edward Marvel been at sea, when he became seriously indisposed, and, for the remaining part of the voyage, was so ill as to be unable to rise from his berth.  He had embarked in a packet ship from Liverpool bound for New York, where he arrived, at the expiration of five weeks.  Then he was removed to the sick wards of the hospital on Staten Island, and it was the opinion of the physicians there that he would die.

“Have you friends in this country?” inquired a nurse who was attending the young man.  This question was asked on the day after he had become an inmate of the hospital.

“None,” was the feebly uttered reply.

“You are very ill,” said the nurse.

The sick man looked anxiously into the face of his attendant.

“You have friends in England?”

“Yes.”

“Have you any communication to make to them?”

Marvel closed his eyes, and remained for some time silent.

“If you will get me a pen and some paper, I will write a few lines,” said he at length.

“I’m afraid you are too weak for the effort,” replied the nurse.

“Let me try,” was briefly answered.

The attendant left the room.

“Is there any one in your part of the house named Marvel?” asked a physician, meeting the nurse soon after she had left the sick man’s room.  “There’s a young woman down in the office inquiring for a person of that name.”

“Marvel—­Marvel?” the nurse shook her head.

“Are you certain?” remarked the physician.

“I’m certain there is no one by that name for whom any here would make inquiries.  There’s a young Englishman who came over in the last packet, whose name is something like that you mention.  But he has no friends in this country.”

The physician passed on without further remark.

Soon after, the nurse returned to Marvel with the writing materials for which he had asked.  She drew a table to the side of his bed, and supported him as he leaned over and tried, with an unsteady hand, to write.

“Have you a wife at home?” asked the nurse; her eyes had rested on the first words he wrote.

“Yes,” sighed the young man, as the pen dropped from his fingers, and he leaned back heavily, exhausted by even the slight effort he had made.

“Your name is Marvel?”

“Yes.”

“A young woman was here just now inquiring if we had a patient by that name.”

“By my name?” There was a slight indication of surprise.

“Yes.”

Marvel closed his eyes, and did not speak for some moments.

“Did you see her?” he asked at length, evincing some interest.

“Yes.”

“Did she find the one for whom she was seeking?”

“There is no person here, except yourself, whose name came near to the one she mentioned.  As you said you had no friends in this country, we did not suppose that you were meant.”