ut, Norman," said the girl, gently, "because my father was a felon,
that does not make me one--because he was led into wrong, it does not
follow that I must do wrong. Insanity may be hereditary, but surely
crime is not; besides, I have heard my father say that his father was an
honest, simple, kindly northern farmer. My father had much to excuse
him. He was a handsome man, who had been flattered and made much of."

"My darling I could not take your hands into mine and kiss them so, if I
fancied that they were ever so slightly tainted with sin."

"Then why not take me home. Norman?"

"I cannot," he replied, in a tone of determination. "You must not
torture me, Madaline, with further pleading. I cannot--that is
sufficient."

He rose and walked with rapid steps down the shore. How bard it was, how
terrible--bitter almost as the anguish of death!

She was by his side again, walking in silence. He would bare given the
whole world if he could have taken her into his arms and have kissed
back the color into her sad young face.

"Norman," said a low voice, full of bitterest pain, "I am come to say
good-by. I am sorry I have done harm--not good. I am sorry--forgive me,
and say good-by."

"It has made our lot a thousand times harder, Madaline," he returned,
hoarsely.

"Never mind the hardship; you will soon recover from that," she said. "I
am sorry that I have acted against your wishes, and broken the long
silence. I will never do it again, Norman."

"Never, unless you are ill and need me," he supplemented. "Then you have
promised to send for me."

"I will do so" she said. "You will remember, dear husband, that my last
words to you were 'Good-by, and Heaven bless you.'"

The words died away on her lips. He turned aside lest she should see the
trembling of his face; he never complained to her. He knew now that she
thought him hard, cold, unfeeling, indifferent--that she thought his
pride greater than his love; but even that was better than that she
should know he suffered more than she did--she must never know that.

When he turned back from the tossing waves and the summer sun she was
gone. He looked across the beach--there was no sign of her. She was
gone; and he avowed to himself that it would be wonderful if ever in
this world he saw her again. She did not remain at Tintagel; to do so
would be useless, hopeless. She saw it now. She had hoped against hope:
she had said to herself that in a year and a half he would