It was about two weeks after Mrs. Mason's departure, when Thrasher began to talk of going to sea again. This depressed his parents greatly. They had hoped that his attachment to Katharine Allen would have kept him at the homestead. Thus they had carefully avoided any allusion to the subject of his departure, satisfied that every thing was progressing to forward their wishes. When he spoke of going away in the course of another week, it was a terrible shock to them, and seemed a painful subject to himself.

Katharine had, from the first, expected his departure—its necessity had been urged upon her on their first meeting under the butternut tree. She acquiesced in his decision then, and never thought of disputing it afterward. But, as the time drew near, she became very sad—vague doubts beset her night and day—formless, reasonless, as she strove to convince herself; but the struggle was always going on—the feelings reasoned out of her mind overnight, were certain to return in the morning.

It was a sorrowful position for a young creature like her, inexperienced every way, needing counsel as no human being ever required it before, yet afraid to breathe a word of the trouble that oppressed her, lest it should alienate her entirely from her suffering mother, whom, next to Thrasher, she loved with the tenderest devotion.

It was an honor to this young creature that she bore all this load of anxiety without a single word of complaint. She felt that all the concealment that followed her marriage had sprung from her own desire. But the dread of giving pain to her mother had exerted an overpowering influence over her. Thrasher had not seemed to care about the matter. Whether his marriage was proclaimed at once or not, had been a subject of indifference. If secrecy had become more important now, she did not realize it; but imagined that he was still indulging her fears rather than guiding them. The sad news that he had brought, the sickness it had inflicted upon her mother, were stern reasons why she should not speak then.

All this Thrasher knew, and was content to leave things to their natural course. So, instead of offering hindrance to his departure, Katharine was almost anxious for him to go, that his return within the promised time might be more certain.

Still the young man lingered at the homestead, though letters reached him from New York twice in one week, from ship owners, he said, urging him to be on hand for a fresh voyage, where, he could not exactly tell. The vessel belonged to no established line, but traded with the West Indies, generally.

The old people were inconsolable. It seemed, they both said plaintively, as if they were parting with their son forever. Why must he leave them again? The homestead and all they possessed in the world should be his if he would but marry and settle down. They only wanted a comfortable room in some corner of the old house, where, with a knowledge of his presence and happiness, their content would be perfect.

He could not answer these tender entreaties, but sat moodily, striving not to listen. His mind was made up—his career marked out. The great loves of his life were antagonistic; one must be surrendered—the holy or the unholy. He turned from the wholesome fruit, and took that which was ashen at the core.

Thrasher might have avoided the last farewell; but painful as it was, he could not force himself to leave the old people unawares. The last evening must come, the last good-night must be said. He would listen to the old man's voice on his knees once more, and let his mother kiss him, as of old, before he went to sleep in that house for the last time. It was all very painful—worse than leaving his young wife; worse than death, he said to himself, a hundred times; all his innocent memories, all his household affections, to be torn up at the roots by his own hands. For what, and for whom?

Would other love come into his life and compensate for this which he threw away? His teeth were clenched, and great drops stood on his forehead, as he asked these questions. But his resolve was made; nothing could change that—not even the gentle old woman, with sweet motherly love in her eyes, who came and sat by him so meekly, and talked of the next thanksgiving, when he would be at home again, and they would have such a dinner. She had set aside the plumpest young turkey on the farm, and it should not be killed till he came back—thanksgiving or no thanksgiving.

God help the man! He stood out against all this; every affectionate string in his heart trembled in the struggle, but his bad, strong will, carried him through.

That night he met Katharine by the old stone wall, when they bade each other farewell. He was gentle to her then, and his voice was so full of anguish, that she gathered up her strength to comfort him. The poor girl spoke hopefully of the little time they would be apart, and how constantly she would think of him—pray for him. She dwelt, too, on other things—on the great happiness that would come in the future. Her voice grew soft with tenderness, and her sweet face looked heavenly in the starlight, as she made this womanly effort to console him; but his eyes were cast down, and a heavy, leaden feeling, weighed upon his shoulders. Dumb and granite-hearted, he listened, striving not to hear.

Katharine's time was up; in a few minutes her old mother would be calling for her. She already saw her tall person casting its shadow across the window, as she walked to and fro, impatient of her loneliness.

"Nelson, I must go!"

The anguish that broke forth in these words smote through his heart, making it leap and tremble, but leaving only a gleam of tenderness behind. The rock of his stern will was unbroken even by that cry, from a heart as true and loving as ever beat in a woman's bosom.

He trembled from head to foot, within the clasp of her arms; cold, spasmodic kisses were pressed on her face. The hands which grasped hers at last, were cold as ice.

They parted thus. He turned and walked heavily away, while Katharine went back to her mother, entreating God to help her bear this separation. It was only for a little time, she murmured over and over again; but even then, she had need of strength from heaven.

Few words were uttered in the Thrasher homestead that night. The old man sat upon the hearth, grave and heavy hearted, smoking at intervals, but quite unconscious when the pipe went out between his lips. The mother held her knitting work—she would not have been herself without it—but her fingers rested motionless on the needles half the time, and she sat gazing wistfully upon the floor till the tears blinded her. Then she would start, look meekly around, to be sure that she was not observed, and wipe her eyes with the cotton handkerchief which she softly drew from her pocket.

Thrasher saw all this, and the iron heart almost melted within him. If the dear old people suffered thus at a temporary parting, what would the future bring them? Again the struggle commenced, battled, strove, tortured him, but ended as before.

In the morning, long before daylight, he arose, and with a valise in his hand, went away, leaving every thing behind him in darkness. When the old people missed him, they said very gently to one another, "He could not bear to say good-by. It was his kind heart. Our Nelson always was kind-hearted."

Katharine, who had watched at her window from dawn until the sun was high, growing pale and sad every moment, heard that he was gone, and whispered, amid her tears, "His heart failed him; he shrunk from seeing my poor face again—my own dear husband; how kind-hearted he is!"