makes fight against the arch-enemy who one day conquers us all. For
many days after his arrival there is no consciousness,--only wild words
(at times words that sound to the ears of the good Doctor strangely
wicked, and that make him groan in spirit),--tender words, too, of
dalliance, and eager, loving glances,--murmurs of boyish things, of
sunny, school-day noonings,--hearing which, the Doctor thinks that, if
this light must go out, it had better have gone out in those days of
comparative innocence.

Over and over the father appeals to the village physician to know what
the chances may be,--to which that old gentleman, fumbling his
watch-key, and looking grave, makes very doubtful response. He hints at
a possible undermining of the constitution in these later years of city
life.

God only knows what habits the young man may have formed in these last
years; surely the Doctor does not; and he tells the physician as much,
with a groan of anguish.

* * * * *

Meantime, Maverick and Adele have gone upon their melancholy search;
and, as they course over the island to the southern beach, the sands,
the plains, the houses, the pines, drift by the eye of Adele as in a
dream. At last she sees a great reach of water,--piling up, as it rolls
lazily in from seaward, into high walls of waves, that are no sooner
lifted than they break and send sparkling floods of foam over the sands.
Bits of wreck, dark clots of weed, are strewed here and
there,--stragglers scanning every noticeable heap, every floating thing
that comes in.

Is she dead? is she living? They have heard only on the way that many
bodies are lying in the near houses,--many bruised and suffering ones;
while some have come safe to land, and gone to their homes. They make
their way from that dismal surf-beaten shore to the nearest house. There
are loiterers about the door; and within,--within, Adele finds her
mother at last, clasps her to her heart, kisses the poor dumb lips that
will never more open,--never say to her rapt ears, "My child! my
darling!"

Maverick is touched as he has never been touched before; the age of
early sentiment comes drifting back to his world-haunted mind; nay,
tears come to those eyes that have not known them for years. The grief,
the passionate, vain tenderness of Adele, somehow seems to sanctify the
memory of the dead one who lies before him, her great wealth of hair
streaming dank and fetterless over the