As soon as he saw that everything had been done for the
invalid that their united skill could accomplish, he bridled an
untrained ostrich, and rode or rather flew off in search of the land
portion of the expedition.
"Mary is saved," he cried, as he came up with them.
"From what?" inquired Wolston, anxiously.
"From the sea, that was about to swallow her up."
"And by whom?"
"By Willis, myself, and us all."
The same evening, the two families were again assembled at Falcon's
Nest, and thus, for a second time, the long talked-of expedition was
brought to an abrupt conclusion.
"Ah," said Willis, "we must cast anchor for a bit; yesterday it was
the sky, to-day it was the sea, to-morrow it will be the land,
perhaps--the wind is clearly against us."
How often does it not happen, in our pilgrimage through life, that we
have the wind against us? We make a resolute determination, we set out
on our journey, but the object we seek recedes as we advance; it is no
use going any farther--the wind is against us. We re-commence ten,
twenty, a hundred times, but the result is invariably the same. How is
this? No one can tell. What are the obstacles? It is difficult to say.
Perhaps, we meet with a friend who detains us; perhaps, a recollection
that our memory has called, induces us to swerve from the path--the
blind man that sung under our window may have something to do with
it--perhaps, it was merely a fly, less than nothing.
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