Whatever reason may say, whatever certainty we may feel, the last hours of waiting for an ocean steamer are anxious ones.

The people at the office may assure us twenty times that they feel "no anxiety whatever"-- that is their stock phrase; our friends who have crossed the ocean twice a year for a score of years may tell us that any vessel may be a few hours, nay, a few days, behind her reckoning; it may seem madness to entertain the least shadow of a doubt--and yet, until the feet we love are on the wharf and the dear glad hands in ours, the shadow of an awful possibility is over us, the dreadful consciousness of the capacity of the sea.
The Duke, who, but for his anxiety to see the end, would have long since been on his way to England, had taken every precaution to ascertain the date of the ship's arrival.

He took it for granted that Claudius would sail in the Cunard steamer, and he found out the vessel which sailed next after the Doctor had telegraphed.

Then he made arrangements to be informed so soon as she was sighted, determined to go down in the Custom-House tug and board her at the Quarantine, that he might have the satisfaction of being first to tell Claudius all there was to be told.
"The day after to-morrow," he had said to Margaret, "we may safely expect him," and he watched, with a sort of dull pleasure, the light that came into her eyes when she heard the time was so near.
The first disappointment--alas, it was only the first--came on the evening before the appointed day.

The Duke received a note from the office to the effect that late arrivals having reported very heavy weather, it was feared that the steamer might be delayed some hours.