When it was finished, her excitement gave way; her spirits ran down; she went, wearily, back to the sofa and pillowed her head on her arms once more. “I wonder what the next incident will be, and how many days and nights it is off.” She shut her eyes, and in thought hurried down the street to the old port. She saw the masts of ships, and the moving water, and the passing lights in the distance. “O God!” she said to herself, “how terrible it is to think that the land is empty for me from end to end. Though I walked over every mile of it, I should never see his face or hear his voice, and there is not a soul in the whole of it that cares one single jot for me. And the great sea is there, and the ships going on and on, and not a soul on board one of them who knows that I live or cares if I die. It frightens me and stuns me, and frightens me again. I am so hungry, and longing, and eager for the utter impossibilities. Oh, my darling, if you had only trusted me; if you could have believed that the sin was outside me and not in my heart; if you had written me just one little line to tell me that some day, even though it were years and years ahead, you would come to me and take me into your life for ever, I would have been so good—I would have made myself the best woman on earth, so that I might give you the best love that ever Heaven sent into a human heart.” There was another knock at the door, and something like a cry escaped from her lips. “Come in”—and again the _garçon_ entered with a letter. This time it was a thick packet. “This is also for Madame,” he said; “it is from England.” She waited until the door had closed behind him before she opened it. The envelope contained a dozen enclosures. They looked like bills and circulars sent on from her London address. Among them was a telegram. “I suppose it is nothing,” she said, as, with trembling hands, she opened it. It was from Bombay, and contained five words— “Sailing next month in _Deccan_.” She fell down on her knees by the table and, putting her face on her hands, burst into passionate weeping. “O dear God,” she prayed, “forgive me and be merciful to me. I have not meant to do wrong, I have only longed to be happy—let me be so. I will try to do right all my life long, and to make him do right, too—only let him love me still. I have never been happy, and I have suffered so. O dear God, is it not enough? Forgive me and let me be happy.” [Illustration] CHAPTER V.