"Bella—Bella—speak to me, my beloved."
But the passionate cry fell on ears that heard not.
The tempest-tossed soul was at rest; above were the pitying Angels' wings, and over all the solemn hush of Death.
[ONE CAN'T ALWAYS TELL.]
From Miss Rose Dacre, Southampton, to Miss Amy Conway, 30, Alford Street, Park Lane.
YACHT "MARIE,"
SOUTHAMPTON.
July 15th, 1901.
Dearest Amy,
Here am I on Jack's yacht, anchored in Southampton waters. The weather is perfect, and I am having a very good time. Jack's mother is on board, and is really devoted to me. I am a lucky girl to have such a sweet mother-in-law in prospective. She is the dearest old lady in the world. The wedding has been decided upon for the last week in September, so I suppose that I shall have to come back to town before very long to see about my trousseau.
There is really nothing so bewildering to anyone who sees it for the first time as the exquisite order and dainty perfection of a yacht in which its owner takes a pride, and can afford to gratify his whim. And this is the case with Jack. The deck shines like polished parquet. The sails and ropes are faultlessly clean, and Jack says that the masts have just been scraped and the funnel repainted. The brass nails and the binnacle are as perfectly in order as if they were costly instruments in an optician's window. There is a small deck cargo of coal in white canvas sacks, with leather straps and handles. And there is the deck-house with its plate-glass windows and velvet fittings and spring-blinds.