"But if it is thy will to take me from him," she continued, as soon as her emotion permitted her,—"if he must be left an orphan amid strangers, implant, I beseech thee, a mother's feelings in some other bosom, and raise up a friend, who shall be to him what I would have been. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him. Here we are. He hated himself a little for it. It tore her apart. It might be three yards in width, and a few more in length; but it was covered with ooze and slime, and the waves continually broke over it. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck.
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