surely--Geoffrey would be saved; they would not trouble him then, there
would be no one to trouble about: Owen Davies could not marry her then,
Geoffrey could not ruin himself over her, Elizabeth could pursue her no
further. It would be well to do this thing for Geoffrey, and he would
always love her, and beyond that black curtain there might be something
better.

They said that it was sin. Yes, it might be sin to act thus for oneself
alone. But to do it for another--how of that! Was not the Saviour whom
they preached a Man of Sacrifice? Would it be a sin in her to die for
Geoffrey, to sacrifice herself that Geoffrey might go free?

Oh, it would be no great merit. Her life was not so easy that she should
fear this pure embrace. It would be better, far better, than to marry
Owen Davies, than to desecrate their love and teach Geoffrey to despise
her. And how else could she ward this trouble from him except by her
death, or by a marriage that in her eyes was more dreadful than any
death?

She could not do it yet. She could not die until she had once more seen
his face, even though he did not see hers. No, not to-night would
she seek this swift solution. She had words to say--or words to
write--before the end. Already they rushed in upon her mind!

But if no better plan presented itself she would do it, she was sure
that she would. It was a sin--well, let it be a sin; what did she care
if she sinned for Geoffrey? He would not think the worse of her for it.
And she had hope, yes, Geoffrey had taught her to hope. If there was a
Hell, why it was here. And yet not all a Hell, for in it she had found
her love!

It grew dark; she could hear the whisper of the waves upon Bryngelly
beach. It grew dark; the night was closing round. She paddled to within
a few fathoms of the shore, and called in her clear voice.

"Ay, ay, miss," answered old Edward from the beach. "Come in on the next
wave."

She came in accordingly and her canoe was caught and dragged high and
dry.

"What, Miss Beatrice," said the old man shaking his head and grumbling,
"at it again! Out all alone in that thing," and he gave the canoe a
contemptuous kick, "and in the dark, too. You want a husband to look
after you, you do. You'll never rest till you're drowned."

"No, Edward," she answered with a little laugh. "I don't suppose that I
shall. There is no peace for the wicked above seas, you know. Now do not
scold. The canoe is as safe as church in