but Carew accepted it rather as a psychic phenomenon-another proof that Nathalie was only a little lower than the angels. Poor child! With her supersensitive and highly nervous temperament she would have been far happier in the love of some simple, commonplace man. Marrying her to David seemed like mating a moth with an eagle, and I felt very anxious for them both.

Warren's duties took him away. from us at the end of the week, and we settled down into our usual manner of living. But I soon noticed a very marked change in Nathalie: the old wistfulness had come back into her eyes, the pathetic curve to her lips; her very step seemed to have lost its lightness, as though she were all at once weighed down by a load of care. Of course David observed this transformation, and it was immediately reflected in his own. face, so I guessed what interpretation he put on it. Yet her manner to him was very sweet and attentive, her receptiveness atoning largely for her timidity and restraint. But neither of them appeared to be happy.

I spoke of it to Agnes at last, and asked her if she could fathom the

cause.

"Poor innocents!" she said. "They are both to blame. David would wear on any woman's nerves. But Nathalie is now making herself more miserable over a bad dream she had some nights ago."

discussed their marriage. I think he would prefer to remain engaged until some time when they could both be translated to a better world!" she added, with fine scorn. Then she told me of Nathalie's dream, which was certainly a strange

one.

It had seemed to the child that her wedding day had come, and that she was being arrayed in all her bridal finery-she could even feel the soft folds of the veil against her face. At last some one led her to the mirror, and when she looked therein, to her horror, she discovered that the veil was black! Next morning, with tears in her eyes, she related the dream to Agnes, who tried to laugh it off as an ordinary case of nightmare; but it had evidently left a deep and painful impression upon Nathalie herself.

By my sister's advice, I confided all this to David. He listened with grave attention; then, instead of making any comment, replied to my story with another of his own.

"Last week," he said, "I went over to town on a small matter of business; and while I was there, it occurred to me that I ought to insure my life in Nathalie's favor. I needn't tell you what a disagreeable shock it was to me when the medical examiner decided that I was a bad risk. Something, it appears, is a little wrong with my heart; and though I may live to be eighty and die of something else, there re

"Interested in Mr. Warren!" echoed Agnes. "What a strange idea! Is that David's notion? If so, you would better tell him the truth,-in strict confidence, however; for Nathalie is a modest little creature, and so far David has never

since I heard this, I have wondered whether it were not my duty to inform Nathalie of the truth, and release her from our engagement. My anxiety has evidently reacted. upon her sensitive spirit. If I thought she really loved me, for her own sake I would keep silence and

spare her years, perhaps, of needless apprehension. But if another man could make her happier-" he broke off suddenly with his face working. And I, unspeakably shocked and distressed, urged him to say nothing, but to hope, as I did, that a long and happy life was before him.

"As for Nathalie," I continued, "Agnes laughed at the idea of her caring for anyone but you, and my sister is a very wise and clearsighted woman."

"I think she is," agreed David. And so we decided to let the matter rest.

Midsummer had now come, with its long, glary days and languorous nights, when the wind from the sea was our very breath of life. We laid by our anxieties from sheer lassitude of body and mind, waiting passively for fate to work its will with us.

During the months of July and August we had several brief visits from Lieutenant Warren, who never failed to make port when the launch was in our waters. If, for David's sake, I put less warmth into my welcome, I think he scarcely noticed it, for the two girls greeted him always with undisguised pleasure. He had been aware of Nathalie's engagement from the very first, and in his friendly and unembarrassed attentions to her, there was really nothing to censure. Where his preference lay-if he had any, indeed-was not not apparent to the lookers-on. I had my own suspicions, and David had his; but by common consent we never alluded to them.

The end of August, I think, had arrived, when Warren announced. that business would take him to Washington for a time. He came once more, to bid us good-bye, and

brought with him a roll of new songs for Nathalie. I observed, however, that he sought an excuse to walk with Agnes, and they were absent much longer than was requisite for their ostensible errand.

"Don't imagine you have seen the last of me!" were his final words, as he shook my hand in parting-and I fancied they were significantly spoken.

The following night, Nathalie, as usual, sang to us on the porch; and after David had called for all his favorite airs, she continued to play on, making sad little harmonies on her guitar. And presently, she sang again, a song I had never heard before:

"The wind blew over the rose
And the rose leaves fell;
But whither the wild wind goes,
Ah, who can tell?

"The light grew pale in the west
And the shades came round;
But where, O heart, shall rest
For thee be found?"

"That is something new," I said. "Where did you get it?" for I thought it was one of Warren's.

"The words I found in an old magazine," she replied, "but the melody is my own."

A moment afterward, when I turned to address David, I discovered that he had left us-without a word of farewell. For two whole days he held aloof, and I dared not seek him out, for I felt that he would rather fight his battle all alone. On the third morning, however, a letter came for Agnes with the Washington postmark. It happened that only she and I were present when the mail was brought in, and when I laid Warren's letter on her knee a lovely blush suffused her cheeks. "I am afraid, Agnes," I said with meaning, "that I have been harbor

ing a robber unawares!" Her color deepened to crimson as she shook her head at me, saying that it was far too soon to think of such a thing. "And besides," she added, "you could never do without me, Jamie!" I answered as any brother would have done in a like case, whereupon she kissed me very lovingly and went away to read her letter. Five minutes later, I had mounted my horse and was riding to the Hermitage.

Half-way there I encountered Carew, walking rapidly, with the face of a spirit rather than a man. He lifted one hand beseechingly as I drew near. "Don't stop me, Boyd! Don't stop me! I have been unutterably selfish and cowardly-and even now my courage may slink away at a word from you!"

"What are you going to do?" I cried.

"What I ought to have done two months ago. Set her free to be happy with the man she loves."

"But, David, you are making a terrible mistake! It isn't Nathalie it's Agnes!"

"Agnes!" he echoed, "Agnes!" and his face went whiter than ever. I slipped from my horse and took his arm, for I was alarmed by his unnatural pallor. For two long hours we walked the woods together. I can't begin to recall everything that I said in my effort to comfort and advise him, but the burden of it was this: "You, and you only, have assumed the responsibility for that poor child's happiness. She loves you very dearly, if not with her whole heart. Take her home, then. Marry her soon, and be good to her always. For if your suspicions are correct-and I still do not think they are-she is only the more in need of all the love and

tenderness that you can give her." He heard me out with rare patience, and wrung my hand when we parted; but there was a dumb despair in his eyes that made me heartsick. A little while before, he had been uplifted by the thought of sacrificing his own happiness for Nathalie's; disappointed of this, he took up his burden again and found it heavier than before. I realized, when I had left him, something of what that burden was. What he had craved in a wife was not a mere fireside companion, but a heavenly being, who would respond to his worship with a divine appreciation of it. And Nathalie had failed him!

It was now the month of September, the cotton was white in the fields and I was absorbed by the cares of the harvest; so I was unaware that a third day had passed by without a visit from David until Agnes mentioned it at supper-time. Then, I thought of going over to the Hermitage; but being much fatigued and troubled by my lame knee, I abandoned the idea and retired early. Sleep, however, kept away from me-I was haunted by a presentiment of evil. For that reason I was the less surprised when near midnight I heard a knock on my door and Nathalie's voice calling to me.

"Dress and come out quickly," she cried, "for something has happened to David!"

"What have you heard?" I demanded, as soon as I could obey her. "I have heard nothing, but I know!" said Nathalie. "Every night-almost since I first met him. I have fallen asleep with his thought touching me, like a finger on my forehead. But to-night-suddenly-it withdrawn! Not gently, as usual, but snatched away

-cut off! I can't describe it to youit is not a thing to be explained but I know something has happened!"

That I, a sane man, should on the strength of such a statement mount my horse and ride two miles through the night, is a sufficient indicaticn of the weight of my own forebodings.

As I approached the Hermitage, I perceived that the light was still shining from the study windows. I dismounted hastily and tried the door; it was unbolted and the latch gave under my hand. I entered, expecting I know not what. David was seated at his desk with an open book before him, his head supported by his left hand, a pencil in the fingers of the right. I called his name, but he made no answer. I touched his forehead, and it was cold.

Afterward-long afterward-I looked to see what volume it was that had engaged his last conscious moments. It was the "Banquet of Plato"-Shelley's vivid translation. With his pencil, David had underscored a passage here and there. Taken together, they read as follows:

"He who aspires to love rightly ought to consider the beauty

which is in souls more excellent than that which is in form. . . . And now, arriving at the end of all that concerns Love, on a sudden he beholds a beauty wonderful in its naeternal, indestructible.

ture

He who dwells with and
on this divine, original,
becomes

gazes
supreme beauty . .

if such a privilege is conceded to any human being, himself immortal."

I placed a marker between the leaves and sent the book to Natha

lie; but whether it had any share in prompting her strange course, shall never be able to decide. Her grief was very touching; it won my forgiveness, at last, for all the suffering she had cost poor David. For weeks she roamed the woods and beach, with a wan, white face that went to my very heart, and the day that Agnes announced her engagement, she came to tell me of her own decision to enter the Ursuline convent in Quebec. To some people, this may seem but another proof of her love for Warren. But it must be borne in mind that when my sister married, I could no longer offer my cousin a home on the island. I 'knew, too, that her mother had been a Roman Catholic, and although of late years the influence. of a Protestant father had weaned Nathalie away, all her early associations were with that faith; so it was not unnatural that she should return to it in her hour of trouble. It may be, too, that a superstitious memory of her dream gave a bias to her thoughts. And it is also possible that she entertained the mistaken idea that in choosing this vocation she would come nearer to realizing David's ideal. The eagle in his soaring had expired with his eyes upon the sun, and so the poor moth

must needs immolate herself before a waxen taper! All our arguments and entreaties were unavailing, and in the month of January, one year from her first meeting with David, she took the irrevocable vows.

And so, for ten years, the two whom David loved have been living their secluded lives, Nathalie in her convent, and I alone upon my island, -for, since Agnes married and left. me, I have had neither the desire nor the temerity to ask any other

woman to share my solitude. All the day long I busy myself in the fields, coming home tired out at evening to throw.myself in David's chair and turn the pages of some

book he valued. For I can truly say with Montaigne-who knew what it was to lose so dear a friend: "There is no action or imagination of mine wherein I do not miss him.”

T happened once upon a time that a boy of twelve was shipwrecked with his father. When they had been rescued, the father asked the boy what he thought in the presence of death. "Oh," said the boy, "when I thought I was going to drown, a horrible thing came toward me, and reached out a claw-like hand to take me. It was more loathsome than anything I had ever seen before; it had horns and hoofs and scales, and its face was more terrible than I can describe. When I resisted, the thing semed to hide and skulk away."

At thirty the young man lay in a fever. His recovery was for a time doubtful, but his strong manhood won the fight. When the struggle was on, he had a vision which re

minded him a little of his boyhood experience, but it was less terrifying,

and some of its hideous features had passed away, and he was conscious of just a trace of fascination for his visitor. But at last his whole being cried out against the vision, and it left him as before.

At fifty the man had sustained an injury which was almost fatal. While his life seemed hanging in the balance, there came to him a

strong, masterful being, who sometimes. fascinated and sometimes repelled. For a time the man hesitated, wishing to go with the stranger, and again feeling a strange repugnance for him. At length slowly, and almost wistfully, the vision faded, and the man came back to health and strength.

And at last the old man of fourscore years sat in a garden, bowed upon his staff. It was a summer evening; the flowers were shutting, and the evening birds were singing. The sun went down behind the hill, and the old man saw a being approach him, radiant with light and beauty. On his brow was stamped the impress of divinity, and his bearing was that of a king among the immortals. But yet he did not command; he stretched out his hands and the old man yielded himself to the rapture of perfect peace. "I've been waiting for you," he cried, "waiting these many years. Why have you not come to me before?" And the stranger smiled and took his hand, and together they went over green fields and beside still waters. And the old man was at '

rest.