But Dan Fitzgerald had passed beyond that flood-mark on the shore. Passion counted for much in the elation of mind and body which was the apotheosis of both; but love counted for more. The memory of a thousand griefs and pains with pity hidden in their hearts came to fill the mystic cup of life which the Unseen, Unknown Hand held out to him from Heaven--the Sangreal of Humanity--the sacraments of Birth and Death. The child dying of the potter's thumb-mark in the dust--that other in loving arms with the ice chilling even death's cold touch--George with the bullet piercing the friendship in his heart--Rose with her pure wisdom fearless and unashamed--these and many another remembrance seemed to blend sorrow and joy into peace, even as the moon-mist blent the world around him into vague beauty. And there was Rose herself! He could see her, as with the easy friendliness of India he paced his pony through the open gates of the garden, and so passed the house. She was still at work among the white flowers beside the door which was set wide upon the warm balmy night. 'Is that you, Mr. Fitzgerald?' she called, pausing at the faint sound of his coming to look out into the flood of moonlight clear as noonday. 'It is I, Miss Tweedie.' He had slipped from his pony and stood beside it welcoming her with outstretched hands as she came forth, eager with some message for the morrow which he might deliver. 'Lewis has told me, and I'm so glad,' he said, breaking in on her words. 'It is the best wedding present I've had yet, and I came along on the chance of seeing you. I've something to give you. I meant it for to-morrow, as a parting gift--just a remembrance of your kindness to us both. But I'd rather give it to you with our best wishes. He unfastened something from his own wrist and put it, soft and warm, into her hand. It was a native amulet cunningly twisted of silk thread and pearls, with a triangle of some blue stone strung in the centre. ''Tis only a glorified ram-rukhri,' he went on half-jestingly, 'the bracelet sisters give their brothers to bring them good luck. Only it is the other way round with you.' Rose looked at the blue of the triangle doubtfully, then at his kindly face. 'Yes! it's a bit of the Ayôdhya pot--the only bit that wasn't in pieces. And it has my name on the back, and--and George's.' 'And George's?' echoed Rose softly. 'Ay! He would have liked it, I know--for you were kind to him--kind to us both, always'--Mâdr-mihrbân, as the old potter called you. And we two, George and I, are one part of the story; I was thinking of it as I came along just now----' She put out her hand with a sudden gesture. 'Don't think of it, Mr. Fitzgerald! Forget all about it. Go away and forget.' He gave a happy laugh. 'Why should I? I don't want to forget anything to-night--except my sins. The rest is all good. Let me put that on for you--so--goodnight! We'll say good-bye to-morrow.'