“Pleasant news,” said Mr. Hawke, with rather a dolorous sigh. “This may turn out as bad as our last scrape. Lyndsay, you are an unlucky fellow. If you go on as you have begun, it will be some months before you reach Canada.”
In less time than the old man had prognosticated, the dense fog had rapidly spread itself over the water, blotting the sun from the heavens, and enfolding every object in its chilly embrace. The shores faded from their view, the very ocean on which they floated, was heard, but no longer seen. Nature seemed to have lost her identity, covered with that white sheet, which enveloped her like a shroud. Flora strove in vain to pierce the thick misty curtain by which they were surrounded. Her whole world was now confined to the little boat and the persons it contained: the rest of creation had become a blank. The fog wetted like rain, and was more penetrating, and the constant efforts she made to see through it, made her eyes and head ache, and cast a damp upon her spirits which almost amounted to despondency.
“What is to be done?” asked Lyndsay, who shared the same feelings in common with his wife.
“Nothing, that I know of,” responded Sam Rogers, “but to return.”
As he spoke a dark shadow loomed through the fog, which proved to be a small trading vessel, bound from London to Yarmouth. The sailors hailed her, and with some difficulty ran the boat alongside.
“Have you passed the City of Edinburgh?”
“We spake her in the river. She ran foul of the Courier steamer, and unshipped her rudder. She put back for repairs, and won’t be down till to-morrow morning.”
“The devil!” muttered Sam Rogers.
“Agreeable tidings for us,” sighed Flora. “This is worse than the storm; it is so unexpected. I should be quite disheartened, did I not believe that Providence directed these untoward events.”
“I am inclined to be of your opinion, Flora,” said Lyndsay, “in spite of my disbelief in signs and omens. There is something beyond mere accident in this second disappointment.”