ou would come.'

A silence. Then he said, waveringly, stooping over her:

'Phoebe--I was very hard to you. But there was a black pall on me--and
now it's lifting. Will you forgive me?--my dear--my dear!'

She clung to him with a great cry. And once more the torrent of love
and repentance was unsealed, which had been arrested through all
these weeks. In broken words--in mutual confession--each helping, each
excusing the other--the blessed healing time passed on its way; till
suddenly, as her hand dropped again upon her knee, he noticed, as he
had often bitterly noticed before, the sham wedding-ring on the third
finger.

She saw his eyes upon it, and flushed.

'I had to, John,' she pleaded. 'I had to.'

He said nothing, but he thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his
coat, and brought out the same large pocket-book which still held her
last letter to him. He took out the letter, and offered it to her.
'Don't read it,' he said, peremptorily. 'Tear it up.'

She recognised it, with a sob, and, trembling, did as he bade her. He
gathered up the small fragments of it, took them to the grate, and lit
a match under them. Then he returned to her--still holding the open
pocket-book.

'Give me your hand.'

She held it out to him, bewildered. He slowly drew off the ring, put
it aside; then from the inmost fold of the pocket-book he took another
ring, slipt it on her finger, and kissed the hand. After which he
knelt down again beside her, and they clung to each other--close and
long.

'I return it'--he murmured--'after twelve years! God bless you for
Carrie. God bless you for coming back to me. We'll go to Italy. You
shall do that for me. But I'll repay you--if I live. Now, are you
happy? Why, we're young yet!'

And so they kissed; knowing well that the years are irreparable, and
yet defying them; conscious, as first youth is never conscious, of
the black forces which surround our being, and yet full of passionate
hope; aware of death, as youth is never aware of it, and yet
determined to shape something out of life; sad and yet rejoicing,
'cast down, but not destroyed.'

EPILOGUE

Of Eugenie, still a few words remain to say. About a year after
Fenwick's return she lost her father. A little later Elsie Welby died.
To the end of her life she had never willingly accepted Eugenie's
service, and the memory of this, alack, is for Eugenie among the pains
that endure. What influence it may have had upon her late