lk Bay for the summer. I'll find you the address."

They talked on a little longer, and then Laurence took his departure.

As he gained the outer air once more there was that about the shimmer of
the sunlight, the hum of the battery stamp, the familiarity of the
surroundings, which reminded him of that former time when he had thus
stepped forth, having bidden a good-bye which was not a good-bye. Yet
the same pain did not grip around his heart now--not in its former
acuteness--rather was it now a sense of the falling away of all things.
By a freak of psychology his mind reverted to poor Lindela, dying in his
arms in the steamy gloom of the equatorial forest: dying slowly, by
inches, in pain; yet uttering no cry, no complaint, lest she should rob
him of a few minutes more or less of sleep. That was indeed love. Still,
even while making it, his sense of philosophy told him the comparison
was not a fair one.

Well, that was over--another chapter in his life to shut down. Now to
make the best of life. Now, with the means to taste its pleasures, with
hard, firm health to enjoy them; after all, what was a mere sentimental
grievance? Perhaps it counted for something, for all he told himself to
the contrary. Perhaps deep down there gnawed a restless craving, stifle
it as he would. Who can tell?

"The R. M. S. _Alnwick Castle_ leaves for England at 4 P. M."

Such was the notice which, posted up in shipping office, or in the short
paragraph column of the Cape Town newspapers, met the public eye.

It was the middle of the morning. Laurence Stanninghame, striving to
kill the few hours remaining to him on African soil, was strolling
listlessly along Adderley Street. A shop window, adorned with
photographic views of local scenery and types of natives,--mostly
store-boys rigged up with shield and assegai to look warlike for the
occasion,--attracted his attention, and for a while he stood, idly
gazing at these. His survey ended, he backed away from the window in a
perfectly irrational and British manner on a busy thoroughfare,
and--trod hard on somebody's toes. A little cry of mingled pain and
resentment, then he stood--profusely apologizing.

But with the first tones of his voice, she whom he had so awkwardly, if
unintentionally damaged, seemed to lose sight of her injuries. Her face
blanched, but not with physical pain, her lips parted in a sort of gasp,
and the sweet eyes, wide and dilated, sought his in wonder--almost in
fe