any one to land, and directed that the
burial should be made at sea. At sunset,
the body of the captain, wrapped in the
flag of his nation, was let down into the deep
water.

The second day after, their child was
stricken with the complaint of the captain;
but recovered. Margaret gave the last
touches to her work on Italy. Slowly, yet
peacefully, passed the long summer days, and
the mellow, moonlit nights; slowly, and with
even flight, their vessel, under gentle airs
from the tropics, bears them safely onward.
Four thousand miles of ocean lay behind;
they were nearly home; but stormy weather
came on, and grew into a hurricane. About
four o'clock in the morning, the vessel struck
on a spot called Fire Island Beach. No
human power could save her; the sea swept
over the vessel, and she lay at the mercy of
the ocean. At daylight the shore was
discernible at a distance of only a few hundred
yards—a lonely waste of sand-hills, as far as
could be seen, through the spray and driving
rain. Men had been early observed, gazing
at the wreck; later, a wagon was drawn
up upon the beach. There was no sign
of a life-boat, however, or any attempt at
rescue; and it was determined that some
one should try to land, by swimming; and,
if possible, obtain aid. Although it seemed
almost sure death to trust one's self to the
surf, a sailor with a life-preserver jumped
overboard, and was seen to reach the shore;
a second followed in safety; but a
passenger who ventured sank, either struck
by some piece of the wreck, or unable to
combat with the waves. Another hour
passed; but though many persons were
busy on the shore, gathering into carts
whatever spoil was stranded, no life-boat
appeared. After much deliberation, it was
agreed that the passengers should attempt to
land, each seated upon a plank, and grasping
handles of rope, while a sailor swam behind.
The first passenger—a woman—was brought
ashore, half-drowned, by the intrepidity of
a sailor.

When Margaret's turn came, she steadily
refused to be separated from her husband
and child. On a raft with them, she would
have boldly encountered the surf; but alone
she would not go. While she was yet
declining all persuasions, word was given
upon the deck that the life-boat had finally
appeared. For a moment the news lighted
up again a flickering hope. But, to the
experienced eyes of the sailors it soon became
evident that there was no attempt to launch
or to man her. The last chance of aid
from shore was then utterly gone. They
must rely on their own strength, or perish.
But, already the tide had turned, and it
was plain that the wreck could not hold
together through another flood. In this
emergency, the commanding officer, who until
now had remained at his post, once more
appealed to Margaret to try to escape—urging
that the ship would inevitably break up;
that it was mere suicide to remain longer;
that he did not feel free to sacrifice the lives
of the crew; finally, that he would himself
take the child, and that sailors should go with
herself and her husband. But, as before, she
declared that she would not be parted from
her husband and child. The order was
then given to "save themselves," and the
greater part of the crew jumped over,
leaving Margaret, her husband, and child
behind. Several of the swimmers reached
the shore alive; although severely bruised
and wounded.

In the afternoon, the gale swelled once
more to its former violence, and the remnants
of the barque fast yielded to the waves. The
cabin was swamped, the after-parts broke up,
and the stern settled down out of sight. Soon,
too, the forecastle was filled with water, and
the helpless little band were driven to the deck,
where they clustered round the fore-mast.
Presently, even this frail support was loosened
from the hull, and rose and fell with every
billow. It was plain to all that the final
moment drew swiftly near. The three seamen
who remained on the wreck, again
persuaded the passengers to try the planks,
which they held in the lee of the ship.
Madame D'Ossoli had at length been induced
by the steward to part with her child, with
a pledge that he would save him, or die,
when a sea struck the forecastle, and the
fore-mast fell, carrying with it the deck,
and all upon it. Ossoli clutched for a
moment the rigging; but the next wave
drew him down. Margaret sank at once.
When last seen she was seated at the foot
of the fore-mast, still clad in her white
night-dress, with her hair fallen loose upon
her shoulders. That twelve hours' communion,
face to face with death, was over. Their
bodies were never found. The steward and
the child were washed ashore, some twenty
minutes after, both dead.

A friend of the unfortunate pair, whom the
news of the wreck drew to the shore, says,
"The hull lies so near, that it seemed as if a
dozen oar-strokes would carry a boat alongside;
and as one looks at it, glittering in the
sunshine, it is hard to feel reconciled to our
loss. Seven resolute men might have saved
every soul on board." " The next day," says
the same writer, " the body of the child was
buried in a chest given by one of the sailors
in a hollow, among the sand heaps. As I
stood beside the lovely little mound, it seemed
that never was seen a more affecting type of
orphanage. Around, wiry and stiff, were
scanty spires of beach grass; near by dwarf
cedars, blown flat by wintry winds, stood,
like grim guardians; only at the grave-head
a stunted wild rose was struggling for existence.
Thoughts came of many a little one in
this hard world, and there was joy in the
assurance that the child was neither motherless