"The last of the blood, Mr. Monk," he moaned, when Morris, hoarse-voiced
and slow-worded, had convinced him of the details of the dreadful fact,
"the last of the blood; and I left childless. At least you will feel for
me and with me. _You_ will understand."

It will be seen that although outside of some loose talk in the village,
which indirectly had produced results so terrible, no one had ever
suggested such a thing, curiously enough, by some intuitive process, Mr.
Fregelius who, to a certain extent, at any rate, guessed his daughter's
mind, took it for granted that she had been in love with Morris. He
seemed to know also by the same deductive process that he was attached
to her.

"I do, indeed," said Morris, with a sad smile, thinking that if only
the clergyman could look into his heart he would perhaps be somewhat
astonished at the depth of that understanding sympathy.

"I told you," went on Mr. Fregelius, "and you laughed at me, that it was
most unlucky her having sung that hateful Norse song, the 'Greeting to
Death,' when you found her upon the steamer Trondhjem."

"Everything has been unlucky, Mr. Fregelius--or lucky," he added beneath
his breath. "But you will like to know that she died singing it. The
aerophone told me that."

"Mr. Monk," the old man said, catching his arm, "my daughter was a
strange woman, a very strange woman, and since I heard this dreadful
news I have been afraid that perhaps she was--unhappy. She was leaving
her home, on your account--yes, on your account, it's no use pretending
otherwise, although no one ever told me so--and--that she knew the
church was going to be washed away."

"She thought you might think so," answered Morris, and he gave
him Stella's last message. Moreover, he told him more of the real
circumstances than he revealed to anybody else. He told him what nobody
else ever knew, for on that lonely coast none had seen him enter or
leave the place, how he had met her in the church--about the removal of
the instruments, as he left it to be inferred--and at her wish had come
home alone because of the gossip which had arisen. He explained also
that according to her own story, from some unexplained cause she had
fallen asleep in the church after his departure, and awakened to find
herself surrounded by the waters with all hope gone.

"And now she is dead, now she is dead," groaned Mr. Fregelius, "and I am
alone in the world."

"I am sorry for you," said Morris simply,