to have sprung up between his cousin and his friend? Not one
bit. Maurice had always had a higher appreciation of Francie and her
aims and ideals than he himself had, much as he liked her; and it was
but natural she should turn to the quarter from which she could derive
most sympathy and practical help. And if Maurice's long-proclaimed
admiration for Miss Savonarola should lead to a still closer bond
between those two--what then?

It was not jealousy that had hold of Lionel Moore's heart just at this
time; it was rather a curious unrest that seemed to increase as day by
day went by without bringing any word of Nina. Had she vouchsafed the
smallest message, to say she was safe and well, to give him some notion
of her whereabouts, it might have been different; but he knew not which
way to turn, north, south, east, or west; at this season of kindly
remembrance he could summon up no sort of picture of Nina and her
surroundings. If only he had known, he kept repeating to himself. He had
been so wrapped up in his idle dreams and visions that, all unwittingly,
he had spurned and crushed this true heart beating close to his side.
And as for making amends, what amends could now be made; He only wanted
to know that Nina was alive--and could forgive.

As he sat by himself in the still watches of the night, plunged in
silent reverie, strange fancies began to fill his brain. He recalled
stories in which he had read of persons separated by great distances
communicating with each other by some species of spiritual telegraphy;
and a conviction took possession of him that now, if ever--now as the
old year was about to go out and the new year come in--he could call to
Nina across the unknown void that lay between them, and that she would
hear and perchance respond. Surely, on New-Year's Eve, Nina would be
thinking of her friends in London; and, if their earnest and anxious
thoughts could but meet her half-way, might there not be some sudden
understanding, some recognition, some glad assurance that all was well?
This wild fancy so grew upon him that when the last day of the year
arrived it had become a fixed belief; and yet it was with a haunting
sense of dread--a dread of he knew not what--that he looked forward to
the stroke of twelve.

He got through his performance that night as if he were in a dream, and
hurried home; it was not far from midnight when he arrived. He only
glanced at the outside of the letters awaiting him; there wa