So the long summer days waxed and waned until it was well into July before the invalid’s tedious convalescence became confirmed enough for him to be removed from his room to a pleasant place by the sea. Here he remained for a week, gaining strength more rapidly, and at last asking to be taken home. A fancy had seized him to revisit the scenes made sacred by their connection with his lost love, and to find her lonely little grave, unmarked perhaps by monument or flower, and to raise a costly stone above the spot. But he did not confide these thoughts to his parents. The subject had never been revived between them again. St. George had a bitter, secret consciousness that he did not have their sympathy in his sorrow, and that at heart the death of his betrothed was a relief to them. Mrs. Beresford had indeed hinted to her son that a certain fair English dame, a dainty Lady Maud whom he had met the previous year, was not indifferent to him, and would be a very welcome daughter-in-law. But her son had answered, with the indifference of ill-health and an aching heart: “I would not want her though she were ‘the daughter of a hundred earls!’” And his father had whispered to his wife: “Leave the lad alone awhile. His grief is too fresh and new to bear consolation yet. Time will bring the only balm--forgetfulness.” So when St. George renewed the subject of going home, they did not say him nay. They, too, were anxious to return, and by the middle of July had engaged their state-rooms on a steamer of the fastest line. Bidding farewell to all their little coterie of English friends at Brighton, they were soon _en route_ for home and Alva. St. George was gaining strength but slowly, and his large, dark eyes looked out of a wan, pale face, whose expression was too sad for tears. This home-coming was inexpressibly bitter to his tortured heart, and his pale, grave, handsome face made him an object of romantic interest to all the lady passengers. But he did not reciprocate their interest, he cared nothing for black eyes or blue that looked at him with gay coquetry or tender sympathy. He said to himself that since Floy was dead he could never love again. He held himself moodily apart from every passenger but one. This was a blonde nobleman of barely middle age, very handsome and grave-looking--Lord Alexander Miller, who had recently inherited by his father’s death a grand estate in Devonshire. He was going over for a tour of the States, he told the Beresfords, but his grave blue eyes had in them a look as if he should not enjoy anything very much, the look of a man with some secret sorrow tugging at his heart-strings. Perhaps it was this secret kinship of sorrow that drew the two men together on shipboard, for each recognized a subtile affinity in the other, and so they became fast friends.