“Don’t be cross, sir,” said the man. “You’re not the first who has felt dizzy after being seasick. You’ll be all right after breakfast.” “Breakfast!” The man’s words rang in his ears and he remembered that it was many hours since anything had passed his lips. But he thought no more of his growing weakness, and had himself driven to the rose-hung cottage where Fenella was waiting for him with outstretched hands. How long the time seemed, and how misty and dim everything looked. The sun shone brilliantly, but there was a something pressing, as it were, upon his brain, a strange pain too at his heart, and that feeling of faintness which seemed to overcome him from time to time. At last! The cottage where he had left her--his darling--yes, the only woman he had ever loved; and he sat up eager to spring out--to tell her that his mission had been faithfully performed. But he had to avail himself of the driver’s arm and totter up to the door, his eyes wildly searching the window for Fenella’s face. Then once more, as in a dream, someone meeting him and a voice speaking: “The lady? No, sir, she left here in the bad weather, two days ago, by the boat.” Onslow heard no more, for a black cloud closed him in, and when he recovered consciousness he was looking in the pleasant face of the elderly little doctor who had attended his wife. “That’s better, my dear sir,” he said. “You are suffering from exhaustion. That’s right--no, no, you must drink this. You are not used to the sea, I suppose. It does prostrate some people, and leave them weak.” “Mrs.--Lady Onslow--my wife?” gasped the wretched man. “She has left the island, my dear sir, and really you must---- Good Heavens! what are you going to do?” “Return at once,” said Onslow, trying to rise. “Impossible. You are not fit to travel.” “Must travel.” “But there is no boat till to-morrow morning between nine and ten, and even if there were, believe me, my dear sir, it would be madness. It is my duty to tell you that you seem to me to be developing symptoms that----” The doctor said no more, for Frank Onslow had sunk on the couch insensible once more, and the next day’s boat had gone when, weak so that he had to support himself with a stick, he made his way slowly along the cliffs after dispatching a telegram to Jacynth at the hotel at Liverpool telling him of his state, of his failure, and imploring him to send news. He knew that it would be hours before an answer could come, and to try and calm himself he was slowly walking along the path, gazing out to sea at the swiftly coming tide, and thinking of the long period that had to be got over before he could take boat the next morning, and escape from what now seemed to him a prison.