“Not yet, Standish,” she whispered. “Do not say anything to me--no, nothing--yet. But you will write every week, and tell me how the Castaway people are getting on, until we come out to you at the islands.” “Daireen, do all the days we have passed together at home--on the lough--on the mountain, go for nothing?” he cried almost sadly. “Oh, my darling, surely we cannot part in this way. Your life is not wrecked.” “No, no, not wrecked,” she said with a start, and he knew she was struggling to be strong. “You will be happy, Daireen, you will indeed, after a while. And you will give me a word of hope now--one little word to make me happy.” She looked at him--tearfully--lovingly. “Dear Standish, I can only give you one word. Will it comfort you at all if I say _Hope_, Standish?” “My darling, my love! I knew it would come right in the end. The world I knew could not be so utterly forsaken by God but that everything should come right.” “It is only one word I have given you,” she said. “But what a word, Daireen! oh, the dearest and best word I ever heard breathed. God bless you, darling! God bless you!” He did not make any attempt to kiss her: he only held her white hand tightly for an instant and looked into her pure, loving eyes. “Now, my boy, good-bye,” said Colonel Gerald, laying his hand upon Standish's shoulder. “You will leave next week for the Castaways, and you will, I know, be careful to obey to the letter the directions of those in command until I come out to you. You must write a complete diary, as I told you--ah, there goes the gun! Daireen, here is Mr. Harwood waiting to shake hands with you.” Mr. Harwood's hand was soon in the girl's. “Good-bye, Miss Gerald. I trust you will sometimes give me a thought,” he said quietly. “I shall never forget you, Mr. Harwood,” she said as she returned his grasp. In another instant, as it seemed to the group on the shore, the good steamer passing out of the bay had dwindled down to that white piece of linen which a little hand waved over the stern. “Mr. Harwood,” said Mrs. Crawford, as the special correspondent brought the major's wife to a wagonette,--“Mr. Harwood, I fear we have been terribly wrong. But indeed all the wrong was not mine. You, I know, will not blame me.” “I blame you, Mrs. Crawford? Do not think of such a thing,” said Harwood. “No; no one is to blame. Fate was too much for both of us, Mrs. Crawford. But all is over now. All the past days with her near us are now no more than pleasant memories. I go round to Natal in two days, and then to my work in the camp.” “Oh, Mr. Harwood, what ruffians there are in this world!” said the lady just before they parted. Mr. Harwood smiled his acquiescence. His own experience in the world had led him to arrive unassisted at a similar conclusion.