I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. "I have him!" cried a voice in triumph. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Opening a pair of large black eyes, the child fixed them for an instant upon Wood, and then, alarmed by the light, uttered a low and melancholy cry, which, however, was speedily stilled by the caresses of his mother, towards whom he extended his tiny arms, as if imploring protection.
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