Shine on him, blessed sun; whisper round him, sweet wind; for there is none like him--none. She envied the sun that shone on him, the breeze that kissed his face. She stretched out her hands to him. "My love," she cried--"my dear lost love!" Her wistful longing eyes followed him. This was the one glance that was to cool the fever preying upon her; this was to be her last look on earth at him--and the chestnut grove was not long--he had passed half through it already. Soon--oh, so soon--he would pass out of her sight forever. Suddenly he stood still and looked down the long forest glade; he passed his hand over his brow, as though to drive away some saddening thought, and her longing eyes never left him. She thanked Heaven for that minute's respite, and drank in the grave manly beauty of his face with eyes that were pitiful to see. "My love," she murmured, in a low hoarse voice, "if I might but die looking at you." Slowly the large burning tears gathered in the sorrowful eyes, and sob after sob rose to the quivering lips: it seemed to her that, kneeling there with outstretched hands, she was weeping her life away; and then he began to walk again, and had almost passed out of her sight. She held out her hands to him with weeping eyes. "Adrian," she called, "good-by, my love, good-by!" And he, all unconscious of the eyes that were bent upon him, turned away, while the darkness and desolation of death fell over the girl who loved him so dearly. CHAPTER XXXII. Hyacinth had looked upon Adrian. In her simplicity she had believed that with that one look all her fever of pain would vanish. Had it been so? Three days since she had stood in Miss Dartelle's room and watched him from the window; and now she looked like one consumed by some hidden fire. In that great busy household no one noticed her, or possibly remarks would have been made. There was a brilliant flush on the beautiful face, the light in her eyes was unnaturally bright, no lips were ever more crimson. She had slept but little. She had spent the nights in pacing her room, doing battle with her sorrow and her love; she had spent the days in fighting against the physical weakness that threatened to overwhelm her. "It would have been better," she owned to herself in a passion of despair, "never to have seen him. That one look upon his face has made me more wretched than ever." "It is all my own fault," she would say again--"all my own fault--no one is in the least degree to blame but myself. I have brought it all upon myself. If I had been content with my home--satisfied with the gifts Heaven had given me--if I had refused to listen to Claude's suggestions--if I had been true to my teachings and true to myself, all this would never have happened--I should have been Adrian's wife. There is no one--no one to blame but myself. I have shipwrecked my own happiness, and all I suffer is just punishment."