David had said: "A love so complete that it must bring with it self-abnegation, and a mingling of pain with its bliss." She had had one glimpse of what the bliss might have been. She was tasting the pain to the full. * * * * * Self stepped forever off the throne of her woman's heart; and Love, undisputed, held full sway. She turned from the fireplace, sank upon the floor beside the chair in which David had sat; then laid her head upon it, clasping her arms around its unresponsive emptiness. "David!... David!... David!" But the distant liner was ploughing steadily through the dark waters. Each moment took him farther from her; nearer to the land from which there is no return. "_Good-bye, my wife._" * * * * * After a while, Diana ceased to call him. She lay very still. No sound broke the silence of the room, save the low shuddering sobs of a breaking heart. But the star in the sky still shone, though heavy curtains veiled it. And David, pacing the hurricane deck, where were no curtains, lifted his eyes to its clear shining; and, in the midst of his own desperate pain, saw in it an emblem of hope, a promise of guidance, a beacon light in this vast desert of utter desolation. * * * * * And midnight brought merciful sleep to both. _Here endeth_ GOLD. FRANKINCENSE CHAPTER XXIV THE HIDDEN LEAVEN Christmas-eve had come round again. The successive changes of each season had passed over Riverscourt;--the awakening of early spring, when earth threw off her pall of snow, and budding life won its annual triumph over the darkening chill of winter;--the bloom and blossom of summer, when all nature lifted up its voice and sang to the sunshine, amid fragrance of flowers and shade of soft green foliage;--the rich fulfilment of autumn, when blossom ripened into fruit, and trees turned to crimson and gold, emblem of the royal wealth of yielded harvest. All this had come, and gone; and now, once more, earth slept 'neath leaden skies; and bare branches forked out, hopeless, over the sodden turf. "Is this the end?" rasped the dead leaves, as the north wind swept them in unresisting herds down the avenue of beeches. "The end! The end!" wailed the north wind. "_The grass withereth, the flower fadeth--_" Then Hope, born of Faith and Experience, cried: "_But the word of our God shall stand forever! While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease._ This is not death, but sleep. When spring sounds the reveillé, life will stir and move again beneath the sod; all nature will respond, and there shall come once more the great awakening; the dismal sentries of darkness and of death may cease to challenge; the troops of light and life march on their way. Again the victory will be with spring." * * * * *