o, I cannot
say I wish it otherwise."

His flickering hope died away in silence. "Katharine, will you promise
me, if there ever comes a time--"

"I promise," she said; "but the time will never come."

He looked at her as dying men look to the light, there was a long
silence, and then he said,--

"I must go now, Katharine. I suppose I must bid you good-by now?"

"Yes, I think it would be best."

"I shall pass this way again on my journey to Alexandria in half an
hour; may I not speak once more to you then?"

"No," she said finally, after a long pause. "I think it best that we
should end it now. It can do no good at all. Good-by, and may God
bless you."

He bent and kissed her hand, and then stopped a moment and looked at
her, saying never a word.

"Good-by, again," she said.

On the instant he turned and left her.

CHAPTER XLI

_Into the Haven, at last_

Two weary horsemen on tired horses were slowly riding up the river road
just where it entered the Wilton plantation. One was young, a mere boy
in years; but a certain habit of command, with the responsibility
accompanying, had given him a more manly appearance than his age
warranted. The other, to a casual glance, seemed much older than his
companion, though closer inspection would show that he was still a
young man, and that those marks upon his face which the careless
passer-by would consider the attributes of age had been traced by the
fingers of grief and trouble. The bronzed and weather-beaten faces of
both riders bespoke an open-air life, and suggested those who go down
upon the great deep in ships, a suggestion further borne out by the
faded, worn naval uniforms they wore. In spite of the joy of
springtime which was all about them, both were silent and both were
sad; but the sadness of the boy, as was natural, was less deep, less
intense, than that of the man. He was too young to realize the
greatness of the loss he had sustained in the death of his father and
sister; and were it not for the constant reminder afforded him by the
presence of his gloomy companion, he would probably, with the careless
elasticity of youth, have been more successful in throwing off his own
sorrow. The man had not lost a father or a sister, but some one dearer
still. He looked thin and ill, and under the permanent bronze of his
countenance the ravages wrought by fever, wounds, and long illness were
plainly perceptible; there were gray hairs in his thi