With an effort she raised her hand, whiter, more fragile than when he had admired it as they sat in the garden; even in her death she remembered that moment. And, as, for the first and last time in her life, he laid his lips upon it, the light in her eyes went out. * * * * * It was nearing sunrise when he left Cecilia in the dark house, and daylight was beginning to look blue through the chinks of the shutter as it met the shine of the candles. ‘I will come back to-day,’ he said; ‘there will be a great many things I must help you about. To-morrow you must come to Fullarton.’ ‘And leave her?’ she exclaimed. ‘If her friendship for me had been less,’ said he, as they parted, ‘you and I would have been happier to-day. My God! what a sacrifice!’ ‘Do you call that friendship?’ she cried, facing him, straight and white in the dimness of the hall. ‘Is _that_ what you call friendship? Mr. Fullarton, have you never understood?’ * * * * * Fullarton rode home in the breaking morning, his long coat buttoned high round his neck. It was chilly and the new day was rising on a world poor and grey, a world which, yesterday, had held more than he understood, and to-day, would hold less than he needed. His loss was heavy on him and he knew that he would feel it more each hour. But what bore him down was the tardy understanding of what he had done when he forged the link just broken. He had accepted a life as a gift, without thanks and without the knowledge of what he did, for he had been too intent upon himself to see the proportions of anything. Now only was he to realize how much she had lightened for him the burden of his barren life. How often he had seen in her face the forgiveness of his ungracious words, the condoning of his little selfishnesses, how often known her patience with his ill-humours! She, who was so impatient, had she ever been ungentle with him? Once only. It was not so many months since she had asked his pardon for it as they sat on the garden bench. With what magnanimity he had forgiven her! He entered the house and sat down at the pale fire which a housemaid had just lit. His heart was too worn, too numb, too old for tears; it could only ache. His butler, an Englishman who had been with him twenty years, came in and put some wine on the table, but he did not turn his head; the man poured out a glass and brought it to him. ‘It will do you good, sir,’ he said, ‘and your bed is ready upstairs. You should try to sleep, sir, if you are going to see her ladyship again to-day.’ Robert looked up. ‘Her ladyship is dead,’ he said. CHAPTER XXII CECILIA SEES THE WILD GEESE THERE are some periods in life when the heart, from very excess of misery, finds a spurious relief; when pain has so dulled the nerves, that, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, we sink into an endurance that is not far from peace.