long-drawn respiration beneath the moonlight,
dashing yeasty foam mast high over slanting
sails reddened by the dawn; beautiful,
terrible, wonderful always; the great waters lay
stretched out before my eyes for many, many
weeks. From my chamber window at
Beachington, I looked forth upon them, every night
and morning. There was nothing to interrupt
my gaze, as I strained it to the far horizon.
I have stood looking, looking, looking, until all
the life within me seemed to concentrate itself
in my eyes, and I felt as though I were floating
poised like a seagull in mid-air, with the
fathomless heavens above me, and the fathomless
ocean beneath me. O, sea and sky! O, sky
and sea! O, the small throbbing human heart
within, and the vast heaving waves without!
O, the old, old story!

My aunt had borne the journey from Willborough
—it was not a long one—better than
we had thought she would; and, for the first
fortnight of our stay at Beachington, her
improvement was most rapid and encouraging.
After that, she sank again a little; but they told
us these fluctuations were to be expected, and
we were hopeful. My uncle remained at the
Gable House. He had come with us to Beachington,
and had seen us settled in our new abode;
then, he returned to Willborough; and Anna
came back from Meadow Leas and kept house
for him. I had left home with a heavy heart—
heavier than the mere temporary separation
from Horace should have made it; for he had
parted from me almost in anger. I cannot
say that he absolutely thought I ought to
have refused to accompany my aunt, but he
seemed to think that I ought to have made it
very evident how much the going cost me.
And how could I do that, without wounding
my beloved benefactors!

"Horace," I said, "think, pray think, what
they have been to us two sisters. It seems to
me that an almost more scrupulous performance
of loving duty is due from Anna and me to
them, than if they were our parents."

"Duty! Yes; duty is your god, Margaret.
You will weigh out the affection you owe, even
to the last scruple, in the scale of duty. So
much for my aunt; so much for my uncle;
so many drachms for Horace; good measure
for Horace; he is to be my husband. Margaret,
if you knew what real love was, you could not
be so calm and cold at parting."

I assigned what excuses I could for him, but
I came away with a heavy heart. His first
letters, after my departure, made me sweet
amends. They were so full of love and
sympathy, of kindly inquiries for my aunt, and
affectionate solicitude for me, that I resolved
to be happy again. My aunt, too, was
apparently gaining strength, so the first days of
our stay at Beachington were bright.  We
had brought a letter from Dr. Dixon to a
brother practitioner at Beachington, one Mr.
Bertram Norcliffe. This gentleman, besides
being skilful in his profession,  was an accomplished
scholar, renowned for his acquaintance
with Greek and Latin and the modern
tongues. When Dr. Dixon told us about
him before we left home, we declared we
should be frightened to speak to so awful a
personage. But we found ourselves quite able
to speak to him, and we soon came to like him
very much. He was not young—nearly as old
as Dr. Dixon, I dare say; but he was
unmarried, and lived alone in a beautiful house
some three miles inland from Beachington.
He took an interest in my aunt's case, and,
as he said it was essential that she should
be kept cheerful and amused, he would come
and sit with us, evening after evening, talking
so unaffectedly and pleasantly that we entirely
forgot all about his learning.

Of course we mentioned Mr. Norcliffe
frequently, in our letters home. At least, aunty
did, when she was able to write; and she
generally added a few lines with her own hand to
my weekly report to my uncle. ln those times,
the postman was not so frequent an apparition at
everybody's door as he is now. A letter was a
serious matter, either to send or receive. And,
besides, between us and Willborough there was
an awkward cross-country post, so that I seldom
despatched a packet to the Gable House oftener
than once a week. Horace's movements were
very uncertain, as he flitted about between
Willborough and Meadow Leas and the Hall.
He even made a flying visit to the north, to
consult with the chairman of the water-works
company, and to reconnoitre his ground; and
he accomplished the double journey thither
and back again, and transacted his business,
all within the space of five days. We thought
this a very wonderful achievement. (I forget
how few hours are requisite to do it in now.)
As Horace seemed to have no settled abode, I
generally sent my letters to him under cover to
Uncle Gough or to Anna at the Gable House,
and I frequently received his, through their
hands, in the same way.

Gradually, by slow degrees—degrees it was
as impossible for me to trace as the shifting
hues of sunset on the western waves, which
began with rosy lustre, and left the deep waters
dark—I found a change in my lover's letters.
It seemed as if some spell were cast over him
—as if a shadow had interposed itself between
him and me—and at length one dreary
fortnight passed, and he did not write at all. But
I fought against the dread that lay coiled up
coldly at the bottom of my heart, and I
endeavoured to be cheerful. How good my aunt
was! How patient, how unselfish! I have never
seen recorded the story of a purer, sweeter life
than Lucy Gough's. You, my godchild, are
named after her. Hers was the large heart,
which, cleaving strongly to its own, yet could
embrace all suffering souls in a divine rapture of
charity.  As you go through life, you will meet
devoted wives who grudge hard-earned fame
and fortune to their husbands' peers; admiring
sisters, who delight to jeer at their brothers'
rivals in the race of life; doting mothers, who,
wrapping their own little ones warmly in the soft