Lauraine was smitten with terrible remorse. It seemed to her always as if she should have withstood his wishes and remained by his side until the end. Even her husband's dying words--the message penned by his hand--failed to comfort her, and it took all Lady Etwynde's persuasions, and all Colonel Carlisle's strong common sense, and all Keith's tender reproaches to lessen the sharpness of her own self-accusation--to convince her that her fault, if fault it were, deserved no such harsh condemnation as she feared. A year has passed since freedom came to her--a year so peaceful and so calm that sorrow and pain and self-accusing seem lulled to rest, and once again Keith whispers of happiness in store. A year, and to-morrow she will wed her lover. He kneels by her side in the summer moonlight--his heart too full of rapture for words--his eyes resting ever on her face with that adoration neither has wearied of yet. "You are happy--you are _sure_ you are happy?" he asks, as he has asked a thousand times before. "Ah, yes," she sighs. "Too happy almost, it seems to me." "And of what were you thinking all this long time?" "I was thinking of something Etwynde told me long ago, dear when I was very wicked, very discontented, very wretched." "What was it?" "That anthem from the 'Elijah': 'Trust in the Lord; wait patiently for Him, and He will give thee thy heart's desire.'" "And what was--your--heart's desire, my own?" "Can you ask?" she murmurs passionately; and in the soft summer dusk he draws her arms about his neck, and kisses the trembling lips. "I can, I do. Tell me," he says, with soft insistence. "Just your own graceless self, Keith!" THE END LONDON: WARD, LOCK & CO., LTD.