Alas! if he were in this other world, was not she quite alone? What companionship was there possible between her and the people in this new and strange land into which she had ventured? As she lay on the bed, with her head hidden down in the darkness, the pathetic wail of the captive Jews seemed to come and go through the bitterness of her thoughts, like some mournful refrain: “By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down; yea, we wept when we remembered Zion.” She almost heard the words, and the reply that rose up in her heart was a great yearning to go back to her own land, so that her eyes were filled with tears in thinking of it, and she lay and sobbed there in the dusk. Would not the old man living all by himself in that lonely island be glad to see his little girl back again in the old house? And she would sing to him as she used to sing, not as she had been singing to those people whom her husband knew, “For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they that wasted us required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion.” And she had sung in the strange land, among the strange people, with her heart breaking, with thoughts of the sea and the hills, and the rude and sweet and simple ways of the old by-gone life she had left behind her. “Sheila!” She thought it was her father calling to her, and she rose with a cry of joy. For one wild moment she fancied that outside were all the people she knew--Duncan and Scarlett and Mairi--and that she was once more at home, with the sea all around her, and the salt, cold air. “Sheila, I want to speak to you.” It was her husband. She went to the door, opened it, and stood there penitent and with downcast face. “Come, you must not be silly,” he said, with some kindness in his voice. “You have had no dinner. You must be hungry.” “I do not care for any; there is no use troubling the servants when I would rather lie down,” she said. “The servants! You surely don’t take so seriously what I said about them, Sheila? Of course you don’t need to care what the servants think. And in any case they have to bring up dinner for me, so you may as well come and try.” “Have you not had dinner?” she said timidly. “Do you think I could sit down and eat with the notion that you might have tumbled into the Thames or been kidnapped, or something?” “I am very sorry,” she said, in a low voice, and in the gloom he felt his hand taken and carried to her lips. Then they went down stairs in the dining-room, which was now lit up by a blaze of gas and candles. During dinner, of course, no very confidential talking was possible, and, indeed, Sheila had plenty to tell of her adventures at Richmond. Lavender was now in a more amiable mood, and was disposed to look on the killing of the roebuck as rather a good joke. He complimented Sheila on her good sense in having gone in at the Star and Garter for lunch; and altogether better relations were established between them.