He reached the church by the narrow spit of sand and shingle which still connected it with the shore, passed through the door in the rough brick wall, closing it behind him, and paused to look. Already under that heavy sky the light which struggled through the brine-encrusted eastern window was dim and grey. Presently, however, he discovered the figure of Stella seated in her accustomed place by the desolate-looking stone altar, whereon stood the box containing the aerophone that they had used in their experiments. She was dressed in her dark-coloured ulster, of which the hood was still drawn over her head, giving her the appearance of some cloaked nun, lingering, out of time and place, in the ruined habitations of her worship. As he advanced she rose and pushed back the hood, revealing the masses of her waving hair, to which it had served as a sole covering. In silence Stella stretched out her hand, and in silence Morris took it; for neither of them seemed to find any words. At length she spoke, fixing her sad eyes upon his face, and saying: “You understand that we meet to part. I am going to London to-morrow; my father has consented.” “That is Christmas Day,” he faltered. “Yes, but there is an early train, the same that runs on Sundays.” Then there was another pause. “I wish to ask your pardon,” he said, “for all the trouble that I have brought upon you.” She smiled. “I think it is I who should ask yours. You have heard of these stories?” “Yes, my father spoke to me; he told me of his conversation with you.” “All of it?” “I do not know; I suppose so,” and he hung his head. “Oh!” she broke out in a kind of cry, “if he told you all——” “You must not blame him,” he interrupted. “He was very angry with me. He considered that I had behaved badly to you, and everybody, and I do not think that he weighed his words.” “I am not angry. Now that I think of it, what does it matter? I cannot help things, and the truth will out.” “Yes,” he said, quite simply; “we love each other, so we may as well admit it before we part.” “Yes,” she echoed, without disturbance or surprise; “I know now—we love each other.” These were the first intimate words that ever passed between them; this, their declaration, unusual even in the long history of the passions of men and women, and not the less so because neither of them seemed to think its fashion strange. “It must always have been so,” said Morris. “Always,” she answered, “from the beginning; from the time you saved my life and we were together in the boat and—perhaps, who can say?—before. I can see it now, only until they put light into our minds we did not understand. I suppose that sooner or later we should have found it out, for having been brought together nothing could ever have really kept us asunder.” “Nothing but death,” he answered heavily.