"And yet you actually love me!" I exclaimed, bewildered at this strange allegation. "It is most extraordinary." "It may seem extraordinary," she said in a voice that appeared to sound soft and afar, "but the truth is oft-times strange, especially when one is draining the cup of life to its very dregs." "And may I not know this secret of yours, Eva?" I asked sympathetically, for I saw by her manner how she was suffering a torture of the soul. "My secret!" she cried, glaring at me suddenly as one brought to bay, a strange, hunted look in those clear blue eyes. "My secret! Why"--and she laughed a hollow, artificial laugh, as one hysterical--"why, how absurd you are, Mr. Urwin! Whatever made you suspect me of having secrets?" CHAPTER FIFTEEN. THE NEAR BEYOND. The remainder of our pull to Riverdene was accomplished in comparative silence. Crushed, hopeless and despairing, I bent to the oars mechanically, with the feeling that in all else my interest was dead, save in the woman I so dearly loved, who, lounging back among her cushions, sighed now and then, her face very grave and agitated. I spoke at last, urging her to reconsider her decision, but she only responded with a single word, a word which destroyed all my fondest hopes-- "Impossible." In that bright hour when the broad bosom of the Thames sent back the reflection of the summer sun, when the sky was clear as that in Italy, when all the world seemed rejoicing, and the gay laughter wafted over the water from the launches, boats and punts gliding past us, we alone had heavy hearts. Overwhelmed by this bitter disappointment and sorrow, the laughter jarred upon my ears. I tried to shut it out, and with my teeth set rowed with all my might against the stream until, skirting the shady wood, we rounded the bend of the stream and suddenly drew up at the landing-steps of Riverdene. "Why, here's Eva!" cried Mary, running down to the water's edge, her tennis-racquet in her hand. "And Frank, too!" Then, turning to Eva as we stood together on the lawn a moment later, she asked, "Where's your mother? We've expected her all the afternoon." "Isn't she here?" asked Eva, in surprise. "No." "Well, she started to come here immediately after luncheon. She must have missed the train or something." "She must, for it's now past five. I really hope nothing has happened." "Nothing ever happens to mother," observed Eva, with a light laugh. "She'll turn up presently." Then she explained how I had called at The Hollies and she had brought me along. On reaching Riverdene she had instantly concealed her agitation and reassumed her old buoyant spirits in order that none should suspect. She was an adept at the art of disguising her feelings, for none would now believe that twenty minutes before her face had been blanched, almost deathlike in agitation.