and one's power. He was desirous
to remain her friend, but he could not, without insincerity--and by
God's grace, he would not--continue longer in a position which was false
in itself and an injustice to each of them. He proposed to dwell very
frankly, but in deep sadness, on the fact that although their engagement
had been a seeming success--outwardly--the success had been by no means
proved either to his satisfaction, or, he ventured to think, to hers.
He would pray that she would not consider herself under any restraint
in speaking freely to him, from her heart, at all times. He hoped that
the inevitable criticism of malicious or ignorant persons would never
shake her faith in his unwavering loyalty, his singular desire for her
happiness. On the other hand, he did not wish to involve her in
justifying his action to the world. There was no call for that. She
might be assured that he would do as little as possible to protract the
agony--he used the word advisedly--of their separation. He believed it
would be the best way--if God gave them the ability--not to meet until
they had trained themselves to the peaceful, sweet relationship of their
first acquaintance. All this and more he composed and turned over in his
mind as he paced the deck. His eyes frequently filled with tears, and he
thought how little, how fearfully little, he had ever suspected this
severance from a noble life with which he had wished most earnestly to
join his own. He was unhappy according to the measure of his capacity,
and he was genuine in so far as he regretted the necessary suffering of
the innocent with the guilty. But guilt is in the intention, and he
could say, with truth, that he had never intended to give pain, or to
make trouble, in his life.

CHAPTER XI

The Southampton steamer approached St. Malo about three o'clock on the
following afternoon. Robert and Brigit had spent the night on deck--it
was better than going below into the close, dreary cabin--and so they
counted the stars, and kept their gaze, through the vast reaches of
atmosphere, for the first sight of land. The moon, then at its full
strength, lit up the whole blue dome above them, and cast its glancing,
silver path upon the water--a path which the ship ever crossed but never
followed. On and on they sped, and, as their ears grew accustomed to the
monotonous churning of the paddle-wheels, the silence seemed intense.
The splendour of the night made sleep, to minds as