"Sister Prudence," said he, earnestly, "I rejoice that a merciful
Providence hath turned your steps homeward, in time for me to bid you a
last farewell. In a few weeks, sister, I am to sail as a missionary to
the far islands of the Pacific. There is not one of these beloved faces
that I shall ever hope to behold again on this earth. O, may I see all
of them--yours and all--beyond the grave!"

A shadow flitted across the girl's countenance.

"The grave is very dark, brother," answered she, withdrawing her hand
somewhat hastily from his grasp. "You must look your last at me by the
light of this fire."

While this was passing, the twin-girl-the rosebud that had grown on the
same stem with the castaway--stood gazing at her sister, longing to fling
herself upon her bosom, so that the tendrils of their hearts might
intertwine again. At first she was restrained by mingled grief and
shame, and by a dread that Prudence was too much changed to respond to
her affection, or that her own purity would be felt as a reproach by the
lost one. But, as she listened to the familiar voice, while the face
grew more and more familiar, she forgot everything save that Prudence had
come back. Springing forward, she would have clasped her in a close
embrace. At that very instant, however, Prudence started from her chair,
and held out both her hands, with a warning gesture.

"No, Mary,--no, my sister," cried she, "do not you touch me. Your bosom
must not be pressed to mine!"

Mary shuddered and stood still, for she felt that something darker than