As he sat by himself in the still watches of the night, plunged in silent reverie, strange fancies began to fill his brain. He recalled stories in which he had read of persons separated by great distances communicating with each other by some species of spiritual telegraphy; and a conviction took possession of him that now, if ever--now as the old year was about to go out and the new year come in--he could call to Nina across the unknown void that lay between them, and that she would hear and perchance respond. Surely, on New-Year's Eve, Nina would be thinking of her friends in London; and, if their earnest and anxious thoughts could but meet her half-way, might there not be some sudden understanding, some recognition, some glad assurance that all was well? This wild fancy so grew upon him that when the last day of the year arrived it had become a fixed belief; and yet it was with a haunting sense of dread--a dread of he knew not what--that he looked forward to the stroke of twelve. He got through his performance that night as if he were in a dream, and hurried home; it was not far from midnight when he arrived. He only glanced at the outside of the letters awaiting him; there was no one from her; not in that way was Nina to communicate with him, if her hopes for the future, her forgiveness for what lay in the past, were to reach him at all. He drew a chair to the table and sat down, leaving the letters unheeded. The slow minutes passed; his thoughts went wandering over the world, seeking for what they could not find. And how was he to call to Nina across the black gulf of the night, wheresoever she might be? Suddenly there leaped into his recollection an old German ballad he used to sing. It was that of the three comrades who were wont to drink together, until one died, and another died, and nevertheless the solitary survivor kept the accustomed tryst, and still, sitting there alone, he had the three glasses filled, and still he sang aloud, "_Aus voller Brust._" There came an evening; as he filled the cups, a tear fell into his own; yet bravely he called to his ghostly companions, "I drink to you, my brothers--but why are you so mute and still?" And behold! the glasses clinked together; and the wine was slowly drunk out of all the three, "_Fiducit! du wackerer Zecher!_"--it was the loyal comrade's last draught. And now Lionel, hardly knowing what he was doing--for there were such wild desires and longings in his brain--went to a small cabinet hard by and brought forth the loving-cup he had given to Nina. They two were the last who had drunk out of it. And if now, if once again, on this last night of all the nights of the year, he were to repeat his challenge, would she not know? He cared not in what form she might appear--Nina could not be other than gentle--silent she might be, but surely her eyes would shine with kindness and forgiveness. He was not aware of it, but his fingers were trembling as he took the cup in