There was hardly a breath of air; just a little swell on, and a gentle ripple on each round heaving wave, with the sunshine weaving threads of brightest silver all through, and making rainbows in the spray and bubbles that floated away astern in the ship’s wake.
The Alba and her happy crew were returning to their native land, and if nothing occurred they would cast anchor by next morning, at the tail of the bank.
“Yes, dear,” replied Meta, “it is all like a dream—a long, long dismal dream.”
“I’m not sorry it all occurred, though, Meta; it has tried your faith and mine as well; and perhaps, you know, if things had not turned out as they have done, my mother would never have consented to our union.”
“Oh, I love your mother so, so much!” exclaimed Meta, enthusiastically. “I loved her before we were a week together in the ship; but then—”
“Then what, dearest?”
“I was not happy, because, you must know, I thought I was deceiving her, that I was playing a double part, that I ought to have told her at once who I was.”
“Do you know, Meta,” said Claude, after a pause, “I do not think I shall ever doubt the goodness of Providence again. Oh! you cannot tell, love,” he continued, “how dark my heart felt, how sad and gloomy, and how full of despair when poor Paddy reported the desertion of Jack and Joe, the Eskimo Indians. And yet, Meta, had they not deserted, your father would not have met them in the Yack village, and the probability is you would not have found us, or found us dead.”
Poor Meta shuddered, and the tears rose to her eyes. Claude hastened to change the subject.
“Do you think, dear,” he said, “you will like our country?”