“The rhythm of life--fulfilment, as now, winter's decay, and the everlasting rebirth of spring.” “They don't tell me that. I don't understand their language,” replied Stella. “To-day I want the sea, just with you--just you and I and the sea.” “And then you think I should understand all that the pink sea-shell that is you is trying to tell me?” She laughed. “I could tell the sea, and the sea could tell you.” _Secret de Polichitielle!_ Had she not been telling him all the time, as implicitly as maidenhood could tell man, of the great and wonderful adventure of her soul? He was exquisitely near,--that he knew,--nearer, indeed, to the roots of her being than the leonine hero of her dreams. He alone of mortals was privileged to receive and treasure the overflow of her heart. With him as joint trustee was the eternal ocean. He winced at the irony of it all. Presently she asked: “Have you ever loved any one?” He answered as he had done years before: “I have loved dreams.” She retorted in his own words: “One can't marry a dream.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You will love some one some day, and then you will want to marry her,” she continued, with her direct simplicity. “And when you do, you 'll come and tell me, dear, for I shall understand.” “I 'll tell you, Stellamaris,” he promised. Then he sprang to his feet. The pain had grown intolerable, “We have n't seen the giraffes,” said he. The child in her once more came to the surface. “I 've longed to see a giraffe all my life,” she cried, and she accompanied him blissfully. After leaving her at the hotel, Herold went home and suffered the torments of a soul on fire. Tragedy lay ahead. Stellamaris, star of the sea, steadfast as a star--he knew her. Love had come to her not in the fluttering Cupid guise in which he visits most of the sweet maidens among mortals, but in the strong, godlike essence in which alone he dare approach the great ones. The sea-foam and mist formed but a garment for this creature of infinite sky and eternal sea. They but shrouded or touched to glamour the elemental strength. She had given her love to John Risca, her Great High Belovedest. God knows what dreams she had woven about him; the man's fine loyalty asserted his friend's worthiness of any woman's dreams. The only, and the hideous, consideration was the fact of John being tied for life to the unspeakable. Himself and the pain of his love he put aside. What were the unimportant sufferings of a thousand such as he compared with one pang that might shoot through the bosom of Stellamaris? What could be done to avert the tragedy? His faith in John Risca was absolute. But John had shut his eyes to the glory shimmering in front of them. His eyes must be opened. Stellamaris must be told. All foundations of the Unwritten Law would have to be swept away, and she would survey in terror the piteous wreckage of the whole fabric of her life. How could he save her? How could he save her from inevitable pain?