35 CHAPTER IV. GOOD-BYE. "To-morrow! To-morrow some on shore Peace, wild-wrung hands; hush, sobbing breath; Sails to-morrow." By the Author of "John Halifax.” Ir was not very hard to persuade Lady Barrington to accompany them to Southampton. Willie had a great desire to see the place, and to go over a man-of-war; and Lady Barrington was anxious to be near Edith in her trouble, and also to see the last of her brother. So the morning of the 27th of October found them all at breakfast at a hotel near the docks. It was not much that any of them could eat even Willie's flow of spirits was checked by the sight of Edith's sad, pale face, and Lady Barrington found it hard to keep back her tears. Mr. Vernon was the calmest of the party; there was a look of peace in his face which told of a heart within that was going forth strong in the strength of GOD; and though there was a shade of pain in the look of tenderness which he fixed on his child, he was not repenting of the sacrifice which he had made -he had "put his hand to the plough, and he was not looking back;" but looking forward to that glorious time when he trusted that Edith would be rejoicing with him in the presence of their Saviour, as they watched the sheaves of the harvest being brought in and laid down at His feet, for whose sake they had laboured. When breakfast was over, Mr. Vernon and Edith were alone together for a little while; and Edith never forgot that time, nor the words her father spoke to her then; they were not many, but they always remained in her heart. All the rest seemed like a dream to her: the crowded dock, and the bustle on the ship-the different faces, all wrapped up in their own concerns. She walked up and down the deck with her hand in her father's, not speaking, and hardly conscious of anything that was passing around her. Once or twice some passenger paused as he caught a sight of that pale little face quivering with excitement, but most passed her by unheeding. Mr. Vernon spoke occasionally to Lady Barrington and Willie, but not often to Edith; he only pressed the little hand. tightly in his own, and smiled when he caught her eye. At last the bell rang, which warned the friends of the passengers that they must leave the vessel. Edith saw her father saying "good-bye" to her aunt and Willie, and then she knew that her own turn was come. Mr. Vernon stooped down, and folded her in his arms. He almost regretted that he had allowed her to come with him, when he felt how she was trembling, and noticed the pallor of her face. "Be brave, my darling," he whispered; "you must go now." She clung to him as if she never intended to loose her hold. "Good-bye, my own child! I trust you to our Father in heaven: may He ever bless you, for His holy Son's sake," he said, very gently, as he disengaged her arms from his neck. Then, pressing one long, fond kiss on her face, he put her hand into her aunt's, saying, "Take care of my little daughter, Geraldine;" and Edith felt herself hurried away. She could see nothing for a few moments-there was a mist before her eyes, and a dull, heavy weight on her forehead. Mechanically she stood upon the pier, watching for the vessel to move off. She could see her father's eyes fixed upon her. She waited for some time; then the ship began to move—very slowly at first, but soon going faster. Still Mr. Vernon leaned over the side, kissing his hand to Edith. At last the vessel got so far out that it was impossible to distinguish faces; and yet the little girl kept her eyes fixed on the small black speck which she knew was her father. She strained her eyes to watch it; then, turning sick and giddy, she clung to her aunt's dress for support. He was gone-utterly gone! and she was left behind! Was she ever to feel those strong arms round her again? Was she ever to gaze into that loving face? Would she ever meet him on this side of the grave? Alas! for poor, lonely little Edith. The crowd seemed to hurry past her, not caring that she was all alone. Even her aunt and cousin seemed to be removed from her, for they could not know how dreadful it was to have him out of sight. But Aunt Geraldine was very kind; she put Edith into a fly, and drove quickly to their hotel. There she took off the child's things, and laid her gently on the sofa, placing her hand softly on the throbbing forehead. "I'm so tired, auntie," was all Edith could say; and the increasing whiteness of her face told that plainly enough. "I know you are, dear; and you have been a brave girl. Now you must drink this," she said, pouring out a glass of wine for her, and holding it to her lips. Edith silently complied, and then lay down again, wearily. Lady Barrington drew down the blinds, and before long the little girl had fallen asleep. It was a troubled, tossing sleep; and she was constantly starting in it, and crying out, "Papa! don't go, papa! The ship mustn't go yet!" In spite of all this, however, she awoke refreshed, and found her aunt leaning over her. "Where's papa ?" were her first words: then her face changed, and she shuddered, and put her hand over her eyes. "Edith, look; here is a parcel directed to you," said her aunt, gently; and she put a square package into Edith's hand as she spoke. The direction was in Mr. Vernon's handwriting"To be given to my little Edith when I have sailed." Edith undid it with trembling fingers, and found a miniature of her father. The artist had done justice to the beauty of the face; it was himself; that was all that Edith could think. It was his own smile, his own eyes, his own high white forehead, his own particular look. She gazed at it for a few minutes as if she was learning it by heart; then closing it gently, she buried her face in the sofa cushion and cried bitterly. "That will do her more good than anything else,” thought her aunt, and she quietly left the room. Half an hour later Willie stole in. Edith was |