“I do, indeed,” said Morris, with a sad smile, thinking that if only the clergyman could look into his heart he would perhaps be somewhat astonished at the depth of that understanding sympathy. “I told you,” went on Mr. Fregelius, “and you laughed at me, that it was most unlucky her having sung that hateful Norse song, the ‘Greeting to Death,’ when you found her upon the steamer Trondhjem.” “Everything has been unlucky, Mr. Fregelius—or lucky,” he added beneath his breath. “But you will like to know that she died singing it. The aerophone told me that.” “Mr. Monk,” the old man said, catching his arm, “my daughter was a strange woman, a very strange woman, and since I heard this dreadful news I have been afraid that perhaps she was—unhappy. She was leaving her home, on your account—yes, on your account, it’s no use pretending otherwise, although no one ever told me so—and—that she knew the church was going to be washed away.” “She thought you might think so,” answered Morris, and he gave him Stella’s last message. Moreover, he told him more of the real circumstances than he revealed to anybody else. He told him what nobody else ever knew, for on that lonely coast none had seen him enter or leave the place, how he had met her in the church—about the removal of the instruments, as he left it to be inferred—and at her wish had come home alone because of the gossip which had arisen. He explained also that according to her own story, from some unexplained cause she had fallen asleep in the church after his departure, and awakened to find herself surrounded by the waters with all hope gone. “And now she is dead, now she is dead,” groaned Mr. Fregelius, “and I am alone in the world.” “I am sorry for you,” said Morris simply, “but there it is. It is no use looking backward, we must look forward.” “Yes, look forward, both of us, since she is hidden from both. You see, almost from the first I knew you were fond of her,” added the clergyman simply. “Yes,” he answered, “I am fond of her, though of that the less said the better, and because our case is the same I hope that we shall always be friends.” “You are very kind; I shall need a friend now. I am alone now, quite alone, and my heart is broken.” Here it may be added that Morris was even better than his word. Out of the wealth that came to him in such plenty, for instance, he was careful to augment the old man’s resources without offending his feelings, by adding permanently and largely to the endowment of the living. Also, he attended to his wants in many other ways which need not be enumerated, and not least by constantly visiting him. Many were the odd hours and the evenings that shall be told of later, which they spent together smoking their pipes in the Rectory study, and talking of her who had gone, and whose lost life was the strongest link between them. Otherwise and elsewhere, except upon a few extraordinary occasions, her name rarely passed the lips of Morris.