She raised her eyes slowly to his face, and looked steadily at him before making her reply. "Yes, I agree with Guy," she answered frankly. "Then it's settled," said Eustace with a huge sigh. "I can't tell you how glad I am to escape being buried under this weight of wealth, like Tarpeia under the shields of the Sabines. An old illustration, is it not, but remarkably apt. You will be able to clear the mortgages off the Hall, Guy, and live there in a manner befitting the place. I will see my lawyers as soon as I return to England, so you will have no further trouble over the matter." "And what about yourself?" asked Alizon, impulsively. "Myself?" he echoed, rising slowly from his chair. "Oh, I am going away to foreign parts. The land of Khem--the blameless Ethiopians--the secret sources of the Nile, and all that kind of thing." "But when you come back?" said Errington, raising himself on his elbow. "When I come back," said Eustace sadly, a presentiment of coming doom heavy on his soul, "then I'll see you both happy and honoured. Perhaps you'll find a domestic seat for me by the domestic hearth, and I'll tell stories of mysterious lands to future generations of Erringtons." Again silence, a painful, oppressive silence, which seemed to last an eternity. "Goodbye, dear old fellow," said Eustace at last, with a mighty effort. Guy clasped his hand without a word, his heart being too full to speak. "And you also, Alizon." She gave him her hand also, and there they stood, husband and wife, with their hands clasped in those of the man whom they both knew had fought a good fight--and conquered. "Goodbye, Eustace," whispered the woman at last, with a look of infinite gratitude and pity in her deep eyes. "May God keep you--brother." And under the spell of that gentle benediction, he passed away from their sight for ever. CHAPTER XL. A LETTER FROM HOME. "I thought that our old life was over and done with, And ever apart we would wander alone, That Clotho had broken the distaff she spun with, Weaving the weird web that made my life one with Your own. "Yea, but this letter unbidden appeareth, A sorrowful ghost of the sweetness of yore. Bringing dear thoughts which the lonely heart cheereth, Recalling the words which the heavy soul heareth No more. "Ah, but love's blossom can ne'er bloom again, love, Withered and brown it lies dead in my heart, There let it faded and broken remain, love, We must live ever while years wax and wane, love, Apart."