They paced the dreary sands until daybreak, and for an hour after daybreak; and by that time the tide was rolling in again, and they had to hasten back to the little harbour. As the fierce waves dashed shorewards with a hoarse roar, each of the explorers thought how the missing traveller had been thus overtaken by the same devouring monsters, savagely bent upon destruction to mankind. In that hour Daniel Mayfield conceived a detestation of the sea--a horror and hatred of those black, rolling waves, as ministers of death and desolation, deadliest foes to human weakness and human love. With daybreak, and the beginning of a new day, came a despair even more terrible than that of the long, dark night. Blank and chill was the dawn of that miserable day. All had been done. Human love, human effort, could do no more, except to repeat again and again the same plan of action that had proved so hopeless. If Eustace Thorburn had taken that fatal path under the cliffs, he had inevitably gone to his death. Of that the people who knew the coast said there could be no doubt. If he had changed his mind at the last moment, and set off in some other direction, why did he not return to Killalochie? Was it likely that he, at all times so thoughtful of others, would show himself on this occasion utterly indifferent to his uncle’s feelings, reckless what anxiety he caused him? Upon that dreary day there was nothing but watching and waiting for the little party at the “William Wallace” inn. Helen, and her father sat alone in their room, the girl pale as marble, but very calm, and with a sweet resignation of manner, which seemed to indicate her regret for that outbreak of passionate sorrow on the previous night. Little was said between the father and daughter, but Theodore de Bergerac’s affection showed itself on this bitter day by a supreme tenderness of tone and manner. Once only did they speak of the subject that filled the minds of both. “My darling,” said Theodore, “it is too soon to abandon hope.” “Oh, papa! I cannot hope, but I have prayed. All through the long night I prayed for my old companion and friend. You think I have no right to be so sorry for him. You do not know how good he was to me all the time we were together. No brother could have been kinder to a favourite sister.” “And you shall weep for him and pray for him, as you would for a brother,” answered the father, tenderly, “with grief as pure, with prayers as holy. Happy the man who has such an intercessor!”