it with you as often as I may--as long as I may," said
Miles huskily whereupon Cynthia smiled on him again.

"How nice of you! Ah yes, you must come. I'll keep quite quiet for the
rest of the day, and then I can talk while you are here. There's so
much I want to tell, and to hear!"

She coughed again, and brushed her hair from her brow, evidently
fatigued by her own emotion. The dainty finish and grace of her
appearance, which had been the greatest charm in Miles' eyes long ago,
was accentuated by her illness into a fragility which made her seem more
like a spirit than a flesh-and-blood woman to his unaccustomed eyes.
His thoughts raced back for a moment to the scene of his Mexican home,
and he realised the folly of the dream which had for so long made the
half-conscious background of his thoughts. Even if she were willing,
even if she loved him, as he loved and would always love her, it would
be a madman who could dream of transplanting this fragile flower to
those rude surroundings. Cynthia was not for him! Their lives, for the
present at least, lay far apart. As for the future, that was in God's
hands; it would be selfish and cowardly to try to ensure it for himself.
Miles' heart was wrung with the agony of renunciation, but his set face
showed no signs of his suffering. He cheered Cynthia with renewed
promises of daily visits, chatted with her of old friends and old times,
and had the reward of hearing her laugh with the old merry ring. When
he took her hand in farewell, she looked at him with frank eyes, and
said sweetly--

"I'm sorry I grumbled--it was wrong of me when I'm so well off. I do
try to be good, but I was always impatient--you used to laugh when I
said so, but it was true. This illness may be just what I need--`They
also serve, who only stand and wait'--I think so often of that line, and
try to wait in patience, but it is hard--the hardest thing in the world,
sometimes!"

"Yes," said Miles quietly, "the very hardest?"

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

EXPLANATIONS.

It was a very happy week. The weather was all that could be desired for
a seaside holiday,--bright yet not glaring, warm but not hot. The hotel
was everything that was luxurious and comfortable, and, last and best of
all, Cynthia kept bright and happy, and was better--not worse--for the
visits of her old friends.

Every morning Betty accompanied Miles up to the villa, leaving Mr
Gerard and Jill busy playing tennis, roving a