When dinner was finished Stella left the room, passing down its shadowed recesses with a peculiar grace of which even her limp could not rob her. Ten minutes later, while Morris sat sipping a glass of claret, the nurse came down to tell him that Mr. Fregelius would like to see him if he were disengaged. Reflecting that he might as well get the interview over, Morris followed her at once to the Abbot’s chamber, where the sick man lay. Except for a single lamp near the bed, the place was unlighted, but by the fire, its glow falling on her white-draped form and pale, uncommon face, sat Stella. As he entered she rose, and, coming forward, accompanied him to the bedside, saying, in an earnest voice: “Father, here is our host, Mr. Monk, the gentleman who saved my life at the risk of his own.” The patient raised his bandaged head and stretched out a long thin hand; he could stir nothing else, for his right thigh was in splints beneath a coffer-like erection designed to keep the pressure of the blankets from his injured limb. “Sir, I thank you,” he said in a dry, staccato voice; “all the humanity that is lacking from the hearts of those rude wretches, the crew of the Trondhjem, must have found its home in you.” Morris looked at the dark, quiet eyes that seemed to express much which the thin and impassive face refused to reveal; at the grey pointed beard and the yellowish skin of the outstretched arm. Here before him, he felt, lay a man whose personality it was not easy to define, one who might be foolish, or might be able, but of whose character the leading note was reticence, inherent or acquired. Then he took the hand, and said simply: “Pray, say no more about it. I acted on an impulse and some wandering words of yours, with results for which I could not hope. There is nothing to thank me for.” “Then, sir, I thank God, who inspired you with that impulse, and may every blessing reward your bravery.” Stella looked up as though to speak, but changed her mind and returned to her seat by the fire. “What is there to reward?” said Morris impatiently; “that your daughter is still alive is my reward. How are you to-night, Mr. Fregelius?” CHAPTER XI. A MORNING SERVICE Mr. Fregelius replied he was as well as could be expected; that the doctor said no complications were likely to ensue, but that here upon this very bed he must lie for at least two months. “That,” he added, “is a sad thing to have to say to a man into whose house you have drifted like a log into a pool of the rocks.” “It is not my house, but my father’s, who is at present in France,” answered Morris. “But I can only say on his behalf that both you and your daughter are most welcome until you are well enough to move to the Rectory.” “Why should I not go there at once?” interrupted Stella. “I could come each day and see my father.” “No, no, certainly not,” said Morris. “How could you live alone in that great, empty house?”