s great grief, and with no further ties, he hoped they
would receive him. He had only one object now in life--to get through
with it and join those he loved in some happier sphere.

This was the substance of what he said to Zara when he came; and they
kissed and blessed one another, and parted, perhaps for ever. The
"Apache" and the "London Fog," which would never be finished now he
feared--the pain would be too great--would be sent to her to keep as a
remembrance of their years of life together and the deep ties that bound
them by the memory of those two graves.

And Zara in her weakness had cried for a long time after he had left.

And then she realized that all that part of her life was over now, and
the outlook of what was to come held out no hope.

Francis Markrute had telegraphed to Wrayth, to try and find Tristram,
but he was not there. He had not gone there at all. At the last moment
he could not face it, he felt; he must go somewhere away alone--by the
sea. A great storm was coming on--it suited his mood--so he had left
even his servant in London and had gone off to a wild place on the
Dorsetshire coast that he knew of, and there heard no news of any one.
He would go back on the Friday, and see Zara the next day, as he had
said he would do. Meanwhile he must fight his ghosts alone. And what
ghosts they were!

Now on this Saturday morning Francis Markrute was obliged to leave his
niece. His vast schemes required his attention in Berlin and he would be
gone for a week, and then was going down to Montfitchet. Ethelrida had
written Zara the kindest letters. Her fiance had told her all the
pitiful story, and now she understood the tragedy in Zara's eyes, and
loved her the more for her silence and her honor.

But all these thoughts seemed to be things of naught to the sad
recipient of her letters, since the one and only person who mattered now
in her life knew, also, and held different ones. He was aware of all,
and had no sympathy or pity--only blame--for her. And now that her
health was better and she was able to think, this ceaseless question
worried her; how could Tristram possibly have known all? Had he followed
her? As soon as she would be allowed to go out she would go and see
Jenny, and question her.

And Tristram, by the wild sea--the storm like his mood had lasted all
the time--came eventually to some conclusions. He would return and see
his wife and tell her that now they must part, that he knew of