It had not taken long to see over the liner. Diana had flown about, from dining-saloon to hurricane-deck, in feverish haste to be back in number 74, in order to have a few quiet moments alone with David.

They were back there, now; and ten minutes remained before the sounding of the gong, warning friends to leave the ship.

"Sit in your easy chair, David," commanded Diana; "I shall like to be able to picture you there."

She moved about the room, examining everything; giving little touches here and there.

She paused at the berth. "What a queer little place to sleep in!" she said; and laid her hand, for a moment, on the pillow.

Then she poured water into one of the tumblers, placed it on the writing table, took the Parma violets from her breast and from her muff, and arranged them in the tumbler.

"Put a little pinch of salt into the water, David, when you come up from dinner, and they will soon revive; and serve, for a few days, to remind you of me! I am never without violets; as you may have noticed."

She hung up his coat and hat. "I wish I could unpack for you," she said. "This cosy little room makes me feel quite domesticated. I never felt domesticated, before; and I am doubtful whether the feeling would last many minutes. But how jolly it all is! I believe I should love a voyage on a liner. Don't be surprised if I turn up one day, and call on you in Ugonduma."

"You must not do that," said David.

"What fun it would be to arrive in the little garden, where the hippopotamuses dance their morning cake walk; pass up the path, between the oleanders; ring the bell—I suppose there is a bell?—and send in my card: Mrs. David Rivers! Tableau! Poor David! It would be so impossible to say: 'Not at home' in Ugonduma, especially to Mrs. David Rivers! The butler—are there butlers?—would be bound to show me in. It would be more astonishing than the hippopotamus! though less destructive to the oleanders! Oh, why am I so flippant!—David, I must see Martin's mate. I want to talk to him about taking proper care of you. Will he come if I ring this bell?... Oh, all right. But I am perfectly certain that while you are finding out how many children he has, and whether they have all had measles, he will fail to notice your most obvious wants."

Diana took off her hat, and laid it on the writing table. Then she came and knelt beside the arm of David's chair.

"David," she said, "before I go, will you give me your blessing, as you did on the night when you led me to the feet of the King?"

David stood up; but he did not lay his hands on that bowed head.

"Let us kneel together," he said, "and together let us ask, that our mistakes—if any—may be overruled; that our sins may be forgiven; that we may remain true to our highest ideals; and that—whether in life or by death—we may glorify our King, and be faithful followers of the Star."

The gong, following closely on the final words of David's prayer, crashed and clanged through the ship; booming out, to all concerned, the knell of inevitable parting.

Diana rose in silence, put on her hat, took a final look round the room; then, together, they passed out, and moved toward the gangway, down which the friends of passengers were already hurrying, calling back, as they went, final words of farewell.

Near the gangway Diana paused, and turned to David.

"You are sure all the dates and addresses you have given me are right?" she said.

David smiled. "Quite sure. I would not risk losing one of your letters."

"You do care that I should write?"

"I count on it," replied David.

"And you will write to me?"

"Undoubtedly I will."

"Quite soon?"

"I will begin a letter to-morrow, and tell you whether Martin's mate has any children; and, if so, whether they have had the measles."

"It would be more to the point to tell me whether he takes proper care of you. David—I wish you were not going!"

A look leapt into David's eyes as of a drowning man sinking for the third and last time, who suddenly sees a rope dangling almost within his reach.

"Why?"

"I don't know. It seems so far. Are you sure you are quite well? Why are you so ghastly white?"

"Quite well," smiled David. "We cannot all have Mrs. Vane's fine colour. Bid her good-bye for me."

All who were going, seemed to have gone. The gangway was empty. Passengers crowded to the side of the ship, waving in tearful silence, or gaily shouting last words, to friends lined up on the dock.

"All ashore!" shouted the sailor in charge of the gangway, looking at Diana.

She moved toward it, slowly; David at her side.

"Look here," said David, speaking hurriedly; "I should hate to watch you standing alone in that crowd, while we slowly pull out into mid-stream. Don't do it. Don't wait to see us go. I would so much rather you went straight to your car. It is just within sight. I shall see William arrange the rug, and shut you in. I shall be able to watch you actually safely on your way to Riverscourt; which will be much better than gradually losing sight of you in the midst of a crowd of strange faces. You don't know how long-drawn-out these dock partings are. Will you—will you do as I ask?"

"Why of course, I will, David," she said. "It is the only thing you have bidden me do since I promised to obey." Her lips trembled. "I hate saying good-bye, David. And you really look ill. I wish I had insisted on seeing Martin's mate."

"I'm all right," said David, with dry lips. "Don't you worry."

"All ashore!" remarked the sailor, confidentially, in their direction.

Diana placed one foot on the gangway; then turned, and put her hand into David's.

"Good-bye, David," said Diana.

His deep eyes looked hungrily into her face—one last long earnest look.

Then he loosed her hand, and bent over her, as she began to descend the gangway.

"Good-bye—my wife"—said David Rivers.