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beings, she steamed slowly out to sea, as though loath to leave the land where she was born. But presently she seemed to gather up her energies and to grow conscious of the thousands and thousands of miles of wide tossing water which stretched between her and the far-off harbor where her mighty heart should cease from beating and be for a while at rest. Quicker and quicker she sped along, and spurned the churning water from her swift sides. She was running under a full head of steam now, and the coast-line of England grew faint and low in the faint, low light, till at last it almost vanished from the gaze of a tall, slim girl, who stood forward, clinging to the starboard bulwark netting, and looking with deep gray eyes across the waste of waters. Presently Augusta, for it was she, could see the shore no more, and turned to watch the other passengers and think. She was sad at heart, poor girl, and felt what she was—a very waif upon

the sea of life. Not that she had much to regret upon the vanished coast-line. A little grave with a white cross over it—that was all. She had left no friends to weep for her-none. But even as she thought it, a recollection rose up in her mind of Eustace Meeson's pleasant, handsome face, and of his kind words, and with it came a pang as she reflected that, in all probability, she should never see the one nor hear the other again. Why, she wondered, had he not come to see her again ? She should have liked to bid him “Good-bye,” and had half a mind to send him a note and tell him of her going. This, on second

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thoughts, however, she had decided not to do; for one, thing, she did not know his address, and—well, there was an end of it.

Could she by the means of clairvoyance have seen Eustace's face and heard his words, she would have regretted her decision. For even as that great vessel plunged on her fierce way right into the heart of the gathering darkness, he was standing at the door of the lodging-house in the little street in Birmingham.

“Gone !” he was saying. “Miss Smithers gone to

“ New Zealand! What is her address ?"

“She didn't leave no address, sir,” replies the dirty maid-of-all-work, with a grin. “She went from here two days ago, and was going on to the ship in London.”

“What was the name of the ship ?” he asks, in despair. Kan-Kon-Conger-eel,” replies the girl in tri

umph, and shuts the door in his face.

Poor Eustace! he had gone to London to try and get some employment, and having, after some difficulty, succeeded in obtaining a billet as reader in Latin, French, and English to a publishing house of good repute, at the salary of £180 a year, he had hurried back to Birmingham for the sole purpose of seeing Miss Augusta Smithers, with whom, if the whole truth must be told, he had, to his credit be it said, fallen deeply, truly, and violently in love. Indeed, so far was he in this way gone, that he had determined to make all the progress that he could, and if he thought that there was any prospect of success, to declare his passion. This was, perhaps, a little premature; but then in these matters people are apt to be more premature than is generally supposed. Human nature is very swift in coming to conclusions in matters in which that strange mixture we call the affections. are involved; perhaps because, although the conclusion is not altogether a pleasing one, the affections, at any rate in the beginning, are largely dependent on the senses.

Pity a poor young man! To come from London to Birmingham to woo one's gray-eyed mistress, in a third-class carriage too, and find her gone to New Zealand, whither circumstances prevented him from following her, without leaving a word or a line, or even an address behind her! It was too bad. Well, there was no remedy in the matter; so he walked to the railway station, and groaned and swore all the way back to London.

Augusta, on board the Kangaroo, was, however, in utter ignorance of this act of devotion on the part of her admirer; indeed, she did not even know that he was her admirer. Feeling a curious sinking sensation within her, she was about to go below to her cabin, which she shared with a lady's-maid, not knowing whether to attribute it to sentimental qualms incidental to her lonely departure from the land of her birth, or to other qualms connected with a first experience of life upon the ocean wave. About that moment, however, a burly quartermaster addressed her in gruff tones, and informed her that if she wanted to see the last of “hold Halbion ” she had better go aft a bit, and look over the port side, and she would see the something or other light. Accordingly, more to prove to herself that she was not seasick than for

any other reason, she did so; and, standing as far aft as the second-class passengers were allowed to go, stared at the quick flashes of the lighthouse as, second by second, they sent their message across the great waste

of sea.

As she stood there, holding on to a stanchion to steady herself, for the vessel, large as she was, had begun to get a bit of a roll on, she was suddenly aware of a bulky figure of a man, which came running, or rather reeling, against the bulwarks alongside of her, where it-or rather he was instantly and violently sick. Augusta was, not unnaturally, almost horrified into following the figure's example, when, suddenly, growing faint or from some other cause, it loosed its hold and rolled into the scuppers, where it lay, feebly swearing. Augusta, obeying a tender impulse of humanity, hurried forward and stretched out the hand of succor, and presently, between her help and that of the bulwark nettings, the man struggled to his feet. As he did

SO, his face came close to hers, and in the dim light she recognized the fat, coarse features, now blanched with misery, of Mr. Meeson, the publisher. There was no doubt about it, it was her enemy: the man whose behavior had indirectly, as she believed, caused the death of her little sister. She dropped his hand with an exclamation of disgust and dismay, and as she did so he recognized who she was.

“Hullo!” he said, with a faint and rather feeble attempt to assume his fine old crusted publishing-company manners. “Hullo! Miss Jemima-Smithers, I mean; what on earth are you doing here ?"

“I am going to New Zealand, Mr. Meeson,” she answered, sharply; "and I certainly did not expect to have the pleasure of your company on the voyage.”

Going to New Zealand,” he said, “are you? Why, so am I; at least, I am going there first, then to Australia. What do you mean to do there-try and run round our little agreement, eh? It won't be any good, I tell you plainly. We have our agents in New Zealand, and a house in Australia, and if you try to get the better of Meeson's there, Meeson's will be even with you, Miss Smithers— Ob, heavens! I feel as though I were coming to pieces.”

“Don't alarm yourself, Mr. Meeson,” she answered, “I am not going to publish any more books at present.”

“That is a pity,” he said, “ because your stuff is goodselling stuff. Any publisher would find money in it. I suppose you are second-class, Miss Smithers, so we sha'n't see much of each other; and, perhaps, if we should meet, it might be as well if we didn't seem to have any acquaintance. It don't look well for a man in my position to know second-class passengers, especially young lady passengers who write novels.”

“You need not be afraid, Mr. Meeson; I have no wish to claim your acquaintance,” said Augusta.

At this point, her enemy was taken violently worse again, and, being unable to stand the sight and sound

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