"An aim?--ay, an aim! If you knew what you said you would know what a solemn and sacred thing it is that has stood in my path, these seventeen years, the ending of my travail--an expectation! What think you of looking forward all that time, as your one aim and expectation--almost, God help us, as your hope--for a thing which you knew would rend your very heart, and make your life a desert when it came--what think ye of that? There are more agonies in this world than men dream of in their philosophy." "Are we not friends?" said Anne. "Have we not an equal share in a great sorrow that is past--I trust and hope in a great joy that is to come? Will you not take my sympathy?--my assistance?" Christian Lillie shrank, as Anne thought, from her offered hand. "An equal share--an equal share. God keep you from that--but it becomes you well: turn round to the light, and let me see your face." She laid her hand on Anne's shoulder, and, turning her round, gazed upon her earnestly. "Like--and yet unlike," she murmured. "You are the only child of your mother? she left none but you?" "Except--" "Hush, what would you say?" said Christian, hurriedly.--"And you would offer me sympathy and help? Alas! that I cannot take it at your, hands. You have opened a fountain in this withered heart, that I thought no hand in this world could touch but one. It is a good deed--you will get a blessing for it--now, fare you well." "Shall I not see you again?" said Anne. Christian hesitated. "I do not know--why should you? you can get nothing but blight and disappointment from me, and yet--for once--you may come to me at night--not to-morrow night, but the next. I will wait for you at the little gate; and now go home and take rest--is it not enough that one should be constantly watching? Fare you well." Before Anne could answer, the tall, dark, gliding figure was away--moving along with noiseless footstep over the sands to the gate of Schole. She proceeded on herself, in wonder and agitation--how shallow was her concern for Norman in comparison with this; how slight her prospect of success when this earnest woman, whose words had such a tone of power in them, even in the deepness of her grief, declared that in her all hope was dead. It was a blow to all her expectations--nevertheless it did not strike her in that light. Her anticipation of the promised interview, her wonder at what had passed in this, obliterated the discouraging impression. She was too deeply interested in what she had seen and heard, to think of the stamp of hopelessness which these despairing words set on her own exertions. That night she transferred her lights early from her little sitting-room to the bed-chamber behind. That was a small matter, if it gave any satisfaction to the melancholy woman, the light from whose high chamber window she could see reflected on the gleaming water, after Miss Crankie's little household had been long hours at rest.