aid:

"Give her the reward, Arthur; I am not going to pay for your misdeeds."

"With all my heart," said Arthur, struggling for composure.

He sat down to draw a check.

"What name shall I put?"

"Hum! Edith Hesket."

"Two t's?"

"No, only one."

"There."

"Thank you, sir."

She put the check into her purse, and brought the prayer-book to Helen.

"Lock it up at once," said she, in a voice so low that Arthur heard her
murmur, but not the words. And she retired, leaving Helen staring with
amazement, and Arthur in a cold perspiration.

CHAPTER LXV.

WHEN the _Springbok_ weighed anchor and left the island, a solitary form
was seen on Telegraph Hill.

When she passed eastward, out of sight of that point, a solitary figure
was seen on the cliffs.

When her course brought the island dead astern of her, a solitary figure
stood on the east bluff of the island, and was the last object seen from
the boat as she left those waters forever.

What words can tell the sickening sorrow and utter desolation that
possessed that yearning bosom!

When the boat that had carried Helen away was out of sight, he came back
with uneven steps to the cave, and looked at all the familiar objects
with stony eyes, and scarce recognized them, for the sunshine of her
presence was there no more. He wandered to and fro in a heavy stupor,
broken every now and then by sharp pangs of agony that almost made him
scream. And so the poor bereaved creature wandered about all day. He
could not eat, he could not sleep, his misery was more than he could
bear. One day of desolation succeeded another. And what men say so
hastily was true for once. "His life was a burden." He dragged it about
with him he scarce knew how.

He began to hate all the things he had loved while she was there. The
beautiful cave, all glorious with pearl, that he had made for her, he
could not enter it, the sight killed him, and she not there.

He left Paradise Bay altogether at last and anchored his boat in a nook
of Seal Bay. And there he slept in general. But sometimes he would lie
down, wherever he happened to be, and sleep as long as he could.

To him to wake was a calamity. And when he did wake, it was always with a
dire sense of reviving misery, and a deep sigh at the dark day he knew
awaited him.

His flesh wasted on his bones, and his clothes hung loosely about him.
The sorrow of the mind reduced him almost to that miserable condition in
which he had la