Her words died away in silence; but her parted lips, her shining eyes, the light upon her face, spoke an eloquent language of their own. Her companion sat and looked at her in mute, breathless silence, not unmixed with awe. He knew his cause was lost. He knew she could never, never be his; yet, strange to say, he was not saddened or cast down, for by this revelation of her innermost heart he felt himself uplifted and ennobled. His idol was not shattered. Monica was, as ever, enshrined in his heart—the one ideal woman to be worshipped, reverenced, adored. Even in this supreme hour of his life, when the airy fabric of his dreams was crumbling into dust about him, he had a perception that perhaps even thus it was best. He never could be worthy of her, and now he might still call himself her friend; had she not said so herself? There was a long, long silence between them. Then he moved, kneeling on one knee before her, and taking her hand in his. “Monica,” he said, “I understand now. I shall never trouble you again. You have judged well, very well; it is like you, and that is enough. But before I go may I crave one boon?” “And that is——?” “That you forget all that I have said, all the wild, foolish words that I have spoken; and let me keep my old place—as your brother and friend.” She looked at him with her own gentle smile. “I wish for nothing better,” she answered. “I cannot afford to lose my friend.” He pressed her hand for one moment to his lips, and was gone without another word. Tears slowly welled up in Monica’s eyes as she rose at last, and stood looking out over the vast waste of heaving grey sea—sad, colourless, troubled. “Like my life,” she said softly to herself. And yet she had just put away a love that might at least have cast a glow upon it, and gilded its dim edges. She stretched out her hand with a sort of mute gesture of entreaty. “Ah! Randolph, husband, come back to me! I am so lonely, so desolate!” Even as she spoke, the setting sun, as it touched the horizon, broke through the bank of cloud which had veiled it all the day, and flooded the sea as with liquid gold—that cold grey sea that she had just been likening to her own future life. She could not help an involuntary start. “Is it an omen?” she asked; and despite the heavy load at her heart, she went home somewhat comforted. [Illustration] CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST. CHRISTMAS. It was Christmas Eve; the light was just beginning to wane, and Monica’s work was done at last. She was free now until the arrival of her guests—the Pendrills and Lord Haddon—should give her new occupation in hospitable care for them.