From that time the voyages of Captain Preston were not so long as formerly, and he often spent many months, sometimes a year or two with his family. He frequently spoke of resigning his sea-faring life altogether, but was ever concluding that he was not yet in a situation to render the step a prudent one for his business interests. Finally, when he had been about fifteen years married, he set out on what he intended and promised his family should be his last voyage. He was at this time the father of three children; the son, of whom we have spoken, a healthful, high-spirited boy, and two daughters, Pauline and Louise—the first greatly resembling her father, the second very like the mother.

Captain Preston was pained to leave his gentle wife looking paler and more thin than usual, and to observe, for she said nothing of it, that she was troubled with a slight cough. Yet he was of a most hopeful spirit, and even as he heard her low voice, and saw her faint smile, so much sadder than tears, he trusted that the coming summer would bring her health, and more cheerful spirits.

Mrs. Preston had usually a remarkable control over her painful emotions, and was peculiarly calm in all seasons of trial; but at this parting, she clung long and closely about her husband’s neck—it seemed that she could not let him go. She buried her face in his bosom and wept and sobbed in irrepressible anguish.

At last, unwinding her fond arms, he resigned her, half-fainting, to the care of her sister, hastily embraced his children, and rushed from the house. He heard his name called in a wild, pleading voice, yet he dared not look back, but ran down the long garden-walk, and paused not till he reached the road. Here he turned for one look at his home, ere a thick clump of pines should hide it from his sight. He lifted his eyes to that pleasant window looking out on the sea, and there stood Dora, weeping and waving her slender white hand. He drew his cap over his eyes, turned again, and hastened down to the harbor.

During this last absence, Captain Preston received but one letter from his wife—but this was very long—a sort of journal, kept through the spring and summer succeeding his departure. In all this, though Dora wrote most pleasantly of home affairs, and very particularly of the children, she made no mention of the state of her own health, and this he knew not whether to regard as matter for assurance or apprehension.

At length he was on his homeward voyage—was fast approaching his native shores. Never had he looked forward to reaching port with such eager, boyish impatience—never had his weary heart so longed for the rest and joy of home.

But a severe storm came up, drove them off their course, and kept them beating about, so that for some days they made no headway. One night—it was a Sabbath night—Capt. Preston, completely exhausted, flung his cloak around him, and threw himself down on the cabin-floor for a little rest, for he could not lie in his berth. It was full midnight—his eyes closed heavily at once—he was fast falling into sleep, when he thought he heard his name called very softly, but in a tone which pierced to the deeps of his heart. He looked up, half raising himself, and Dora was before him! Yes, his own Dora, it seemed, with her own familiar face, still sweet and loving in its looks, though it seemed strangely glorified by the shining forth of a soft, inward light. Again she spoke his name, drew nearer, and bent down, as though to kiss his forehead. He did not feel the pressure of her lips, but he looked into the eyes above him—her own dear eyes, and read there a mournful, unspeakable tenderness—a divine intensity, an eternity of love. He reached out his arms and called her name aloud; but she glided, faint smiling, from his fond embrace—the blessed vision faded, and he was alone—alone in the dim cabin of a storm-rocked vessel, with the tempest shrieking through the cordage, with the black heights of a midnight heaven above, and the blacker depths of a boiling sea below.

Frederic Preston did not sleep that night. In spite of all the efforts of his reason, his heart was racked with anxiety, or oppressed with a mortal heaviness.

In the course of the following day the storm abated, and they afterward crowded all sail for land; yet it was a week ere they cast anchor in —— harbor. It was ten o’clock at night, and Captain Preston was immediately rowed to shore. Without waiting to speak to any one, he hurried up the road toward his cottage. As he drew near the bend in the road, by the clump of pines, he said to himself that if all were well at home, there would surely be a light shining from that window of Dora’s chamber looking out on the sea. But as he came in full view, he paused, and dared not look up, while the thick, high beating of his heart seemed almost to suffocate him. At last, chiding himself for this womanish weakness, he raised his eyes—and all was dark!

He hardly knew how after this he made his way up the garden walk, to the cottage, nor how, when finding it all closed, he still had strength to go on to his father’s house, where he was received with many tears, by his parents, his sisters, and his children. The deep mourning dress of the whole sad group told of itself the story of his desolation. For some time, he neither spoke nor wept, but supported by his father, and leaning his head on his mother’s breast, he swayed back and forth, while his deep, constant groans shook his strong frame, and burdened all the air about him. Finally, in a scarce audible voice, he asked:

“When did she go, mother?”

“Last Sunday, near midnight, my son.”

“Thank God, it was she, then! I saw her last! She came to me—her blessed angel came to bid me farewell. Oh, that divine love which could not die with thee, Dora, Dora!”

Then with a light over his face which was almost a smile, he turned to his poor children, gathered them to his embrace, and wept with them.

Mrs. Preston, who, as we have said, had ever been fragile and delicate, had at last died of a rapid decline. She had been confined to her room but a few weeks, and to her bed scarcely a day. She passed away with great tranquillity of spirit, though suffering much physical pain. Her children were with her at the last, and her patience, serenity, and holy resignation seemed to repress the passionate outbursts of their childish grief till all was over.

It was not until some time had passed that Captain Preston felt himself able to open a large package placed in his hands by his mother, and which Dora had left for him—sealed up and directed with her own hand, the very day before she died.

At length, seeking his own now desolate home, and shutting himself up in that dear familiar chamber, with the pleasant window looking out on the sea—there where he had seen her last—where she had breathed out her pure spirit—where her form had lain in death—there he lifted his heart to God for strength, kissed the seal and broke it. Before him lay a rich mass of dark auburn hair—Dora’s beautiful hair! With a low cry, half joy, half pain, he caught it, pressed it to his lips and heart, and bedewed it with his abundant tears. Suddenly he observed that those long, bright tresses were wound about a letter—a letter addressed to him in Dora’s own familiar hand. He sank into a seat, unfolded the precious missive, and read—what we will give in the chapter following.

——