"You will not listen?" he says. "Oh! Reine, think a minute. Is it best to refuse such love as mine--so ardent, strong, and devoted? You are so young and lovely, yet so lonely and unprotected. Let me throw the strong shield of my love around you--let me make you my wife!" Reine waves him away with a quiver of pain on the beautiful face, that is even more lovely in its pallor and gravity than it used to be in its blushes and dimples. "I shall never love--never marry--again," she answers, in a choking voice. "Then you can give me no hope?" Doctor Franks asks sadly, and she shakes her head. "You do not know how long I have loved you," he says, pleadingly. "Ever since I first saw you you have been the delight of my eyes and heart. But I have tried to be patient. I have respected your widowhood and your sorrow. But now, Reine, seeing you so utterly alone in the world, the time seemed come for me to speak. Are you sure--quite sure, dear, that you can never love me?" The sound of the sea comes to them soft and sad; the wind sighs through the long grass above the quiet sleepers, whom the things of this world trouble no more. Tears rise into the dark eyes of the girl as she looks into the man's troubled face. It is no slight thing to a true woman to hold the great, throbbing pulse of a man's heart in the hollow of the hand. She lifts to his the great, dewy, pain-filled eyes. "I am so sorry," she falters; "but you must have seen how little I cared for you, for anyone, and that my heart was broken." Before that grave and pathetic confession the man's passion is mute. "And I have wounded you," he says, in self-condemnation. "Forgive me, Mrs. Charteris, I have heard of women who were faithful unto death. I did not know there were those who carried love beyond it." She sighs wearily and rests her cheek against the cold marble cross. "My heart is broken," she repeats sadly. "I shall never have any more room in my life for love and lovers." "Nor friends?" he asks, pleadingly, and Reine impulsively holds out her hand. "Yes, if you care to claim me," she answers, gently. "Rather your friendship than any other woman's love," says the rejected lover, loyally. "You must not feel like that, it is so very hopeless," the girl answers. "I am going home soon. You may never see me again. I hope that you may love and marry some happier woman." And when he has gone away and left her to the loneliness of her own thought, she sinks down in the long, sweet grass, weeping long and bitterly. Until now she has never quite realized the truth of her widowhood. It comes to her with a great pang of agony that Vane Charteris has no longer any place among men. His place in her poor life is vacant forever. "And I loved him so dearly," she sighs, lifting her desolate, tear-wet eyes to the fair, blue heavens. "I loved him, and if he had lived he would have loved me. My patient love must have won him in the end."