"Lawrence! Lawrence!" she called, despairingly. But he did not seem to hear. He felt no hardness toward her; she had brought him the great deliverance as well as the grievous bondage. But he could no more heed her now than turn back if he were drawn by unbridled horses and some one cried behind. But when at last he came to go out, he almost stumbled upon her lying across the door. He stooped and picked her up; she was as cold as stone. She clung about his neck. The tempest had come; her ship was a wreck, the dark waves tumbling about her and dashing her with their salt spray. She clung to the strong swimmer she had flouted when winds were sweet, but was afraid she came too late. "I could not help it; he deserted me basely. Oh, Lawrence, do not cast me off!" she implored. "Do not go away. Pity me; I am very miserable. I should not have done that if you had not forsaken me. No one ever helped me but you, and I have not been happy, you know I have not. I do not know what will become of me if you put me away. I won't vex you any more; before God I will not! You have me at your mercy; will you not be merciful?" He laid her on the bed and wrapped her up. He spoke in a deep, solemn voice: "Be still. I cannot hear you to-night. I have been merciful. I will try to do what is right. I am going away now; wait till I come back." He took the midnight train south. Stella was out of town. He followed her. He felt that he could not meet her before strangers with self-control, or go through formalities. He wrote a brief note at the hotel asking to see her alone. Then he shrank from the thought of meeting her with detestable things to explain, and he added: "I should like you to know my altered position before we meet. I shrink from shocking you by a personal explanation painful to us both. Forgive me, then, for inclosing papers which will inform you." The messenger brought back a note which showed marks of agitation: "Please excuse me to-night. I will walk on the beach early in the morning." As the sun came up out of the sea, and he turned away from watching the splendid vision, he saw one that affected him more. She stood a little way off, looking intently seaward; and the morning took a new grace from the flush on her cheek and the light in her clear, calm eyes. His eyes grew dim as he looked at her. If she had felt any agitation, it was gone when she turned and waited for him to approach. She gave him her hand. "Is it not a beautiful morning?" she said. "Don't you think it should make us very gentle and unselfish?" The falling cadence of her voice was more musical than the waves that babbled at her feet. They walked side by side along the sands. "Yes," he answered, "yes. If all mornings were like this----" he broke off and looked out to sea. They came among scattered bowlders, and stood still. With diffidence she took out of his letter the paper with the printed slip attached, and gave it to him. "You were not offended at my sending them?"