“Those who love one another have nothing to fear from separation. Life always brings them together again,” she replied. He yielded, sadly, for he felt that she was leaving him. A week later, in truth, he received this short letter: My friend, I am overwhelmed. I have learnt by chance of the death of my step-father Bregeac! Suicide, was it not? I know also that they found the Marquess de Talencay at the bottom of a ravine, into which he had fallen they say, by accident. A crime, was it not? Murder? And then the terrible death of Jodot and William. And then so many deaths! Miss Bakersfield, and the two brothers, and, long ago, my grandfather. I am going away, Ralph. Do not try to learn where I am going. I do not know yet, myself. I must think things over, consider my life, come to a decision. I love you, my friend. Wait and forgive me. Ralph did not wait. The distress of mind shown by this letter, the suffering she was enduring, his own suffering and anxiety, everything drove him to action and urged him to seek for her. His enquiries proved vain. He thought that she had taken refuge at Sainte-Marie; he did not find her there. He made inquiries in every quarter. He organized his friends to help him find her. His efforts were useless. In despair, fearing that some new enemy was tormenting her, he passed two really painful months. Then one day he received a telegram. She begged him to come to Brussels next day, and fixed a meeting-place in Cambre wood. Ralph’s joy was boundless when he saw her arrive, smiling, at peace, wearing an air of infinite tenderness, her face clear of all painful memories. She held out her hand and said: “You forgive me, Ralph?” They walked along, side by side, for a little way, as near to one another as if they had never parted.