A melancholy feeling clouded the features of Alexander Wilmot as, on the following morning, the vessel, under a heavy press of sail, was fast leaving the shores of his native country.

He remained on the poop of the vessel with his eyes fixed upon the land, which every moment became more indistinct.

His thoughts may easily be imagined.

Shall I ever see that land again?
Shall I ever return, or shall my bones remain in Africa, perhaps not even buried, but bleaching in the desert?
And if I do return, shall I find my old relation still alive, or called away, loaded as he is with years, to the silent tomb?
We are in the hands of a gracious God.

His will be done.
Alexander turned away, as the land had at last become no longer visible, and found a young man of about his own age standing close to him, and apparently as much lost in reverie as he had been.