Tom stretched himself out on a box, and there, as he lay, he heard, ever and anon, a smothered sob or cry from the prostrate creature,--"O! what shall I do?
O Lord! O good Lord, do help me!" and so, ever and anon, until the murmur died away in silence.
At midnight, Tom waked, with a sudden start.

Something black passed quickly by him to the side of the boat, and he heard a splash in the water.

No one else saw or heard anything.

He raised his head,--the woman's place was vacant! He got up, and sought about him in vain.
The poor bleeding heart was still, at last, and the river rippled and dimpled just as brightly as if it had not closed above it.
Patience! patience! ye whose hearts swell indignant at wrongs like these.

Not one throb of anguish, not one tear of the oppressed, is forgotten by the Man of Sorrows, the Lord of Glory.