Ah! that struck her full. Oh, see! Geoffrey’s ring has slipped from her wet hand, falling into the bottom of the boat. Can she regain it? she would die with that ring upon her finger—it is her marriage-ring, wedding her through death to Geoffrey, upon the altar of the sea. She stoops! oh, what a shock of water at her breast! What was it—what was it?—_Of once sown seed, who knoweth what the crop is?_ She must soon learn now! “Geoffrey! hear me, Geoffrey!—I die, I die for you! I will wait for you at the foundations of the sea, on the topmost heights of heaven, in the lowest deeps of hell—wherever I am I will always wait for you!” It sinks—it has sunk—she is alone with God, and the cruel waters. The sun goes out! Look on that great white wave seething through the deepening gloom; hear it rushing towards her, big with fate. “Geoffrey, my darling—I will wait——” Farewell to Beatrice! The light went out of the sky and darkness gathered on the weltering sea. Farewell to Beatrice, and all her love and all her sin. CHAPTER XXIX. A WOMAN’S LAST WORD Geoffrey came down to breakfast about eleven o’clock on the morning of that day the first hours of which he had spent at Euston Station. Not seeing Effie, he asked Lady Honoria where she was, and was informed that Anne, the French _bonne_, said the child was not well and that she had kept her in bed to breakfast. “Do you mean to say that you have not been up to see what is the matter with her?” asked Geoffrey. “No, not yet,” answered his wife. “I have had the dressmaker here with my new dress for the duchess’s ball to-morrow; it’s lovely, but I think that there is a little too much of that creamy lace about it.” With an exclamation of impatience, Geoffrey rose and went upstairs. He found Effie tossing about in bed, her face flushed, her eyes wide open, and her little hands quite hot. “Send for the doctor at once,” he said. The doctor came and examined the child, asking her if she had wet her feet lately. “Yes, I did, two days ago. I wet my feet in a puddle in the street,” she answered. “But Anne did say that they would soon get dry, if I held them to the fire, because my other boots was not clean. Oh, my head does ache, daddie.” “Ah,” said the doctor, and then covering the child up, took Geoffrey aside and told him that his daughter had a mild attack of inflammation of the lungs. There was no cause for anxiety, only she must be looked after and guarded from chills. Geoffrey asked if he should send for a trained nurse. “Oh, no,” said the doctor. “I do not think it is necessary, at any rate at present. I will tell the nurse what to do, and doubtless your wife will keep an eye on her.” So Anne was called up, and vowed that she would guard the cherished child like the apple of her eye. Indeed, no, the boots were not wet—there was a little, a very little mud on them, that was all.