He had known Neva Wynde from her earliest childhood. They had played together in the woods and gardens of Hawkhurst and before Neva had been sent to her foreign school the child pair had betrothed themselves and vowed an eternal fidelity to each other. The late Earl Towyn, the father of Arthur, and Sir Harold Wynde had been college-mates, and it had been their dearest wish to unite their families in the persons of their children, but they had been too wise to broach the idea to the young couple. They had, however, encouraged the affection of Arthur and Neva for each other, and had looked forward hopefully to the time when that childish affection should possibly ripen into the love of manhood and womanhood. Soon after Neva’s departure for school Lord Towyn had died, and his son, then at college, had become earl in his stead. A mysterious fate had also removed Sir Harold Wynde, and Neva’s step-mother, as is known to the reader, had schemes of her own in regard to Neva’s marriage. The young earl’s mute sympathy seemed to penetrate to Neva’s heart, for presently she turned her face again to him, and although her mouth quivered her eyes were brave, as she said brokenly: “You will think me unchristian, Lord Towyn, but I cannot become reconciled to the manner of papa’s death. If he had but died as George died, peacefully in his bed; but his fate was so horrible--so awful! I sometimes fancy in the night that I can hear his cries and moans. In my own imagination I have witnessed his awful death a thousand times. The horror of it is as fresh to me now as when the news first came. Shall I ever get used to my sorrow? Will the time ever come, do you think, when I can think of papa with the calmness and resignation with which I think of my poor brother?” “It was horrible, even to me, beyond all words to describe,” said the young earl softly. “I loved Sir Harold only less than my own father, and I have mourned for him as if I had been his son. All ordinary words of consolation seem a mockery to one who mourns a friend who perished as he did. He was vigorous and young for his years, noble and true and good. Let us hope that his pangs and terrors were but brief, Neva. Perhaps his death was not so terrible to him as it seems to us. It were better so to die than to languish for years a prey to some excruciating disease. And let us remember ‘whatever is, is right.’ Instead of dwelling on the manner of his death, let us remember that his death was but the opening to him of the gates of life eternal.” Neva did not answer, but her face was very grave and tender, and her sun-like eyes glowed with a softer radiance. There was a brief silence between them, and finally Neva said, with an abrupt change of the subject: “Do you know Lady Wynde, Lord Towyn?” “I have met her several times, but not since Sir Harold’s death,” was the reply. “Is she traveling with you?” and the young earl glanced around the deck.