Perhaps the girl was not well to-day--they had thought she had not been very well lately. "And how is she getting on with...." (the word stuck in his throat) "with her lessons?" "Wonderfully! Of course she has long arrears to make up, but the way she works to fit herself for her new station .... well, it's enough to make a person cry, really." Stowell felt as if something were taking him by the throat. "In fact my sister and I used to wonder and wonder what she did with her bedroom candles until we found out she was sitting up after everybody had gone to sleep to learn her grammar and spelling." Stowell felt as if something had struck him in the face. Every hard thought about Bessie seemed to be wiped out of his mind in a moment. Going back to Port Erin (he walked all the way) he could think of nothing but that girl sitting up in her bedroom to educate herself, in her poor little way, that she might become worthy to be his wife. If he disappointed her now what would become of her? Would she kill herself? Would the world kill her? Kate Kinrade? The days of the Bishop and the woman were not over yet. No, he must keep his pledge, and make no more wry faces about it. If it had been his duty before it was more than ever his duty now. But Fenella? He must put her out of his mind for ever. He would be the most unhappy man alive, but then his own happiness was not the only thing he had to think about. He could not live any longer under false pretences. He must find some way of telling Fenella that he had engaged himself while she was away--that he was a pledged man. But what then? There would be nothing more between them as long as they lived--not a smile or the clasp of a hand! She whom he had loved so long, never having loved anybody else! It would be like signing his death-warrant. The dead leaves from the roadside were driving over his feet; his eyes ached and his throat throbbed, but he gulped down his emotion. After all he would be the only sufferer! Thank God for that anyway! As he reached Port Erin, he saw the white sails of the yacht against the blue sea and sky. "Yes, I must tell Fenella--I must tell her to-night," he thought. CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE EVERLASTING SONG OF THE SEA "Ah, here you are at last! Just in time! A breeze sprang up an hour ago, and the Captain would have gone without you but for me. The herring fleet have gone already. Look, there they are, sailing into the sunset." Fenella was in high spirits. Having prevailed upon the Governor to let them have a real night with the herrings (turning the yacht into a fishing boat) she had borrowed a net and hired fishermen's clothes--oilskins and a sou'-wester for herself and a "ganzy" and big boots for Stowell. It was impossible to resist the contagion of Fenella's gaiety. "Why try?" thought Stowell. It would be his last night of happiness. To-morrow he would have to bury it for ever.