stopped and she was taken off it.  During that hour they had travelled hardly over half a league.  At that time she so sobbed and moaned that Arkwright absolutely feared that she would perish in the forest, and he implored the guides to use the poles which they had prepared.  She had declared to him over and over again that she felt sure that she should die, and, half-delirious with weariness and suffering, had begged him to leave her at the last hut.  They had not yet come to the flat ground over which a litter might be carried with comparative ease; but nevertheless the men yielded, and she was placed in a recumbent position upon blankets, supported by boughs of trees.  In this way she went through that day with somewhat less of suffering than before, and without that necessity for self-exertion which had been worse to her than any suffering.

There were places between that and the river at which one would have said that it was impossible that a litter should be carried, or even impossible that a mule should walk with a load on his back.  But still they went on, and the men carried their burden without complaining.  Not a word was said about money, or extra pay;—not a word, at least by them; and when Arkwright was profuse in his offer, their leader told him that they would not have done it for money.  But for the poor suffering Señora they would make exertions which no money would have bought from them.

On the next day about noon the post did pass them, consisting of three strong men carrying great weights on their backs, suspended by bands from their foreheads.  They travelled much quicker than our friends, and would reach the banks of the river that evening.  In their ordinary course they would start down the river close upon daybreak on the following day; but, after some consultation with the guides, they agreed to wait till noon.  Poor Mrs. Arkwright knew nothing of hours or of any such arrangements now, but her husband greatly doubted their power of catching this mail despatch.  However, it did not much depend on their exertions that afternoon.  Their resting-place was marked out for them, and they could not go beyond it, unless indeed they could make the whole journey, which was impossible.

But towards evening matters seemed to improve with them.  They had now got on to ground which was more open, and the men who carried the litter could walk with greater ease.  Mrs. Arkwright also complained less, and when they reached their resting-place on that night, said nothing of a wish to be left there to her fate.  This was a place called Padregal, a cacao plantation, which had been cleared in the forest with much labour.  There was a house here containing three rooms, and some forty or fifty acres round it had been stripped of the forest trees.  But nevertheless the adventure had not been a prosperous one, for the place was at that time deserted.  There were the cacao plants, but there was no one to pick the cacao.  There was a certain melancholy beauty about the place.  A few grand trees had been left standing near the house, and the grass around was rich and park-like.  But it was deserted, and nothing was heard but the roaring of the congos.  Ah me!  Indeed it was a melancholy place as it was seen by some of that party afterwards.

On the following morning they were astir very early, and Mrs. Arkwright was so much better that she offered to sit again upon her mule.  The men, however, declared that they would finish their task, and she was placed again upon the litter.  And then with slow and weary step they did make their way to the river bank.  It was not yet noon when they saw the mud fort which stands there, and as they drew into the enclosure round a small house which stands close by the river side, they saw the three postmen still busy about their packages.

“Thank God!” said Arkwright.

“Thank God, indeed!” said his brother.  “All will be right with you now.”

“Well, Fanny,” said her husband, as he took her very gently from the litter and seated her on a bench which stood outside the door.  “It is all over now,—is it not?”

She answered him by a shower of tears, but they were tears which brought her relief.  He was aware of this, and therefore stood by her, still holding her by both her hands while her head rested against his side.  “You will find the motion of the boat very gentle,” he said; “indeed there will be no motion, and you and baby will sleep all the way down to Greytown.”  She did not answer him in words, but she looked up into his face, and he could see that her spirit was recovering itself.

There was almost a crowd of people collected on the spot, preparatory to the departure of the canoes.  In the first place there was the commandant of the fort, to whom the small house belonged.  He was looking to the passports of our friends, and with due diligence endeavouring to make something of the occasion, by discovering fatal legal impediments to the further prosecution of their voyage, which impediments would disappear on the payment of certain dollars.  And then there were half a dozen Costa Rican soldiers, men with coloured caps and old muskets, ready to support the dignity and authority of the commandant.  There were the guides taking payment from Abel Ring for their past work, and the postmen preparing their boats for the further journey.  And then there was a certain German there, with a German servant, to whom the boats belonged.  He also was very busy preparing for the river voyage.  He was not going down with them, but it was his business to see them well started.  A singular looking man was he, with a huge shaggy beard, and shaggy uncombed hair, but with bright blue eyes, which gave to his face a remarkable look of sweetness.  He was an uncouth man to the eye, and yet a child would have trusted herself with him in a forest.

At this place they remained some two hours.  Coffee was prepared here, and Mrs. Arkwright refreshed herself and her child.  They washed and arranged their clothes, and when she stepped down the steep bank, clinging to her husband’s arm as she made her way towards the boat, she smiled upon him as he looked at her.

“It is all over now,—is it not, my girl?”—he said, encouraging her.

“Oh, Harry, do not talk about it,” she answered, shuddering.

“But I want you to say a word to me to let me know that you are better.”

“I am better,—much better.”

“And you will see your mother again; will you not; and give baby to her yourself?”

To this she made no immediate answer, for she was on a level with the river, and the canoe was close at her feet.  And then she had to bid farewell to her brother.  He was now the unfortunate one of the party, for his destiny required that he should go back to San José alone,—go back and remain there perhaps some ten years longer before he might look for the happiness of home.

“God bless you, dearest Abel,” she said, kissing him and sobbing as she spoke.

“Good-bye, Fanny,” he said, “and do not let them forget me in England.  It is a great comfort to think that the worst of your troubles are over.”

“Oh,—she’s all right now,” said Arkwright.  “Good-bye, old boy,”—and the two brothers-in-law grasped each other’s hands heartily.  “Keep up your spirits, and we’ll have you home before long.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” said the other.  But from the tone of the voices, it was clear that poor Ring was despondent at the thoughts of his coming solitude, and that Arkwright was already triumphing in his emancipation.

And then, with much care, Fanny Arkwright was stowed away in the boat.  There was a great contest about the baby, but at last it was arranged, that at any rate for the first few hours she should be placed in the boat with the servant.  The mother was told that by this plan she would feel herself at liberty to sleep during the heat of the day, and then she might hope to have strength to look