ing sea. No. And them meanest to die and leave me. I see that.
From thy quiet bed, in my own garden, amid many fair sisters, thou wert drawn forth by my little daugh ter, when I was about to leave, with the kind and thoughtful words, that "something green might look pleasant to me at sea." And so it did. Right pleas ant hast thou been unto me, and sociable, yea, elo quent. I little imagined the depth of communion there would be between us. For the home-spirit was in thine heart.
Sometimes, when night closed in heavily, with those deep sighs of the wind that betoken a coming storm, and the leaping ship seemed fain to seek a loophole to escape, or a depth to hide in, I have drawn closer unto thee, as if thou couldst comfort me. Or, at waking from such slumbers as the hoarse lullaby of the surge induces, and raising my head from the coffin-like berth, my eyes fell first upon thee, and I spake softly to thee as to a child. But I have marked thy delicate leaves grow sad, and fall away. Day by day I have num bered them, and mourned each faded one as a friend. Now, only a few remain, folding themselves around thy graceful bosom. My poor rose-geranium !
Thirteen days and nights had we been upon the deep, when awaking at the gray hour of dawn, I re membered it w r as the first anniversary of the death of my beloved father, and beckoned the solemn imagery of that scene to meet me over the waves. Like a liv ing picture, every lineament gleamed forth ; his ven-
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