where I have dear friends, a large tract of land, and where some of the happiest years of my life were spent. You are not wise, Flora, to regard the Cape with such horror. No person would delight more in the beautiful and romantic scenery of that country than yourself. You have taken up a foolish prejudice against the land I love.”

“It is not that, dear John. But you know, I have such a terror of the wild beasts—those dreadful snakes and lions! I never should dare to stir beyond the garden, for fear of being stung or devoured. And then, I have been bored to death about the Cape, by our good friends the P——’s, till I hate the very name of the place!”

“You will perhaps one day find out your error, Flora; and your fears are perfectly absurd! Not wishing to render your emigration more painful, by taking you to a country to which you are so averse, I have made choice of Canada, hoping that it might be more to your taste. The only obstacle in the way, is the reluctance you feel at leaving your friends. Am I less dear to you, Flora, than friends and country?”

This was said so kindly, and with such an affectionate earnestness for her happiness more than his own—for it was no small sacrifice to Lyndsay to give up going back to the Cape—that it overcame all Flora’s obstinate scruples.

“Oh, no, no!—you are more to me than all the world! I will try and reconcile myself to any change, for your sake!”

“Shall I go first, and leave you with your mother until I have arranged matters in Canada?”

“Such a separation would be worse than death! I would rather encounter a thousand dangers, than remain in England without you! If it must be, I will never say another word against it!”

Here followed a heavy sigh. The young husband kissed the tears from her cheek, and whispered—

“That she was his dear, good girl.”

And Flora would have followed him to the deserts of Arabia.

“I have had a long conversation with a very sensible, practical man,” continued Lyndsay, “who has lately come to England upon colonial business. He has been a settler for some years in Canada, and the accounts he has given me of the colony are so favourable, and hold out such encouragement of ultimate success and independence, that they have decided me in my choice of making a trial of the backwoods. I promised to meet him this morning at the Crown Inn (where he puts up), to look over maps and plans, and have some further talk upon the subject. I thought, dear, that it was better for me to consult you upon the matter before I took any decided steps. You have borne the ill news better than I expected: so keep up your spirits until I return, which will not be long.”

Flora remained in deep thought for some time after the door had closed upon her husband. She could now recal every word of that eventful conversation, which they had held together the morning before their marriage, upon the subject of emigration. In the happy prospect of becoming his wife, it had not then appeared to her so terrible.

Faithfully had he reminded her of the trials she must expect to encounter, in uniting her destiny to a poor gentleman, and had pointed out emigration as the only remedy for counteracting the imprudence of such a step; and Flora, full of love and faith, was not hard to be persuaded. She considered that to be his wife, endowed as he was by nature with so many moral and intellectual qualities, with a fine face and noble form, would make her the richest woman in the world: that there was in him a mine of mental wealth, which could never decrease, but which time and experience would augment, and come what might, she in the end was sure to be the gainer.

She argued thus:—“Did I marry a man whom I could not love, merely for his property, and the position he held in society, misfortune might deprive him of these, and a disagreeable companion for life would remain to remind me constantly of my choice. But a generous, talented man like Lyndsay, by industry and prudence may become rich, and then the most avaricious worlding would applaud the step I had taken.”

We think after all, that Flora reasoned wisely, and, acting up to her convictions, did right. The world, we know, would scarcely agree with us; but in matters of the heart, the world is rarely consulted.

They were married, and, retiring to a pretty cottage upon the sea-coast, confined their expenditure to their limited means, and were contented and happy, and so much in love with each other and their humble lot, that up to this period, all thoughts upon the dreaded subject of emigration had been banished from one mind, at least. Flora knew her husband too well to suspect him of changing a resolution he had once formed on the suggestion of duty. She felt, too, that he was right,—that painful as the struggle was, to part with all dear to her on earth, save him, that it must be made. “Yes, I can, and will dare all things, my beloved husband, for your sake,” she said. “My heart may at times rebel, but I will shut out all its weak complainings. I am ready to follow you through good and ill,—to toil for our future maintenance, or live at ease. England—my country! the worst trial will be to part from you.”

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CHAPTER II.
THE OLD CAPTAIN.

Flora’s reveries were abruptly dispelled by a gentle knock at the door; and her “Come in,” was answered by a tall, portly, handsome old lady, who sailed into the room in all the conscious dignity of black silk and white lawn.

The handsome old lady was Mrs. Kitson, the wife of the naval officer, whose ready-furnished lodgings they had occupied for the last year. Flora rose to meet her visitor, with the baby still upon her arm.

“Mrs. Kitson, I am happy to see you. Pray take the easy-chair by the fire. I hope your cough is better.”

“No chance of that,” said the healthy old lady, who had never known a fit of dangerous illness in her life, “while I continue so weak. Hu—hu—hu—. You see, my dear, that it is as bad as ever.”

Flora thought that she never had seen a person at Mrs. Kitson’s advanced stage of life with such a healthy, rosy visage. But every one has some pet weakness. Mrs. Kitson’s was always fancying herself ill and nervous. Now, Flora had no very benignant feelings towards the old lady’s long catalogue of imaginary ailments; so she changed the dreaded subject, by inquiring after the health of the old Captain, her husband.

“Ah, my dear, he’s just as well as ever,—nothing in the world ever ails him; and little he cares for the sufferings of another. This is a great day with him; he’s all bustle and fuss. Just step to the window, and look at his doings. It’s enough to drive a sensible woman mad. Talk of women wearing the smalls, indeed! it’s a base libel on the sex. Captain Kitson is not content with putting on my apron, but he appropriates my petticoats also. I cannot give an order to my maid, but he contradicts it, or buy a pound of tea, but he weighs it after the grocer. Now, my dear, what would you do if the Leaftenant was like my husband?”

“Really, I don’t know,” and Flora laughed heartily. “It must be rather a trial of patience to a good housekeeper like you. But what is he about?” she cried, stepping to the window that overlooked a pretty lawn in front of the house, which commanded a fine view of the sea. “He and