The next day Ralph Webster went to see a very different woman to the sprightly actress. He went to see pale, sad-faced May Churchill, propped up in an easy chair, with the unmistakable attitudes of weakness and languor in every movement.

A sudden flush, however, rose to her very brows as Webster entered the room, and she nervously held out her hand. She was remembering that momentous meeting on the bridge; remembering her terrible misery and despair.

And the ordinarily calm Webster was also ill at ease. He took the thin, trembling little hand in his, almost without a word; he looked at the altered face, and a strange, painful emotion stirred his heart.

“You are better?” he said a moment later, but not in his usual firm tones.

“Yes, much better,” she answered.

It was the same sweet, low voice that he had listened for too eagerly at his aunts’ house; that had touched some hidden chord in his heart that hitherto had been mute.

“Doctor Brentwood told me you were much better,” he went on, still nervously, “and I hope soon to see you quite well.”

May made no reply for a moment or so, then she looked up in his face.

“And did Doctor Brentwood tell you anything else?” she asked. “Did he tell you that I wish to find some employment at once?”

“He told me something of this,” answered Webster, taking a chair and drawing it nearer to her; “but for you to do anything at once is, I am sure, impossible.”

“But I must, indeed I must, Mr. Webster,” said May, earnestly. “I can not any longer be a burden to you—I know I have been—”

Here she paused, and tears came unbidden into her eyes, and she turned away her head to hide her emotion.

“Do not, I entreat you, speak thus,” said Webster, also much moved. “I have only been too happy, too thankful, to have been of any use to you. And anything I can do for you, anything that a most sincere friend can do, I am sure you know I will do.”

“You have been most kind, most good,” faltered May. “But—but do not let us speak of the painful past; it upsets me, and unfits me for what I have got to say, for what I must do. What I want is to find some work, some employment.”

“And what have you thought of?”

“I have thought of many things,” answered May with a wan smile. “I am not sufficiently educated to be a governess, I fear, for I have never been at any college nor passed examinations as they do now. I could go into a shop—”

“Certainly not,” interrupted Webster, quickly.

“Why not? It is a means of livelihood, and what matter is it?” said May, quietly.

“It is a life you are quite unsuited for, and one utterly unsuited to you. That is out of the question.”

“Then there are telegraph and post office clerks, are there not, who are women?”

“Yes, but—”

“But Mr. Webster, I must do something. And—there is another thing I have thought of—what I should like best, I think—to be a nurse.”

“Do you mean a hospital nurse?”

“Yes, like Nurse Margaret, who has attended upon me. I am sure I should like this best, and if Doctor Brentwood would give me a chance—”

“I am sure he will do anything for you that he can. Yes,” continued Webster, after a moment’s thought, “I think that life would suit you best. You are naturally gentle and kind, and to help poor, sick people would be a congenial task to you. But nursing, like other things, has to be taught. I will talk to Brentwood about it.”

“Yes, they receive what they call probationers at some hospitals, and perhaps Doctor Brentwood would kindly use his influence to get me admitted at one of these.”

“I will see about it, and I think it is the most likely thing to suit you. But before you do anything, or think of anything, you must have a complete change of air. You must go to the seaside for awhile.”

“I can not do this, Mr. Webster.”

“Forgive me saying so, but you must. Nothing will make you strong but that. How could you nurse anyone when you still want nursing yourself? You must go to Hastings, or one of these places.”

“I—I have no money to do so—it is impossible.”

“Have I not asked you to regard me as a sincere friend? Do you think the trifle it would cost is not most heartily at your service? When you become a very swell nurse, you know,” added Webster, smiling and trying to speak lightly, “you must repay me.”

“If—if I only could,” said May, with emotion.

“You can, and will. Now that is all settled, and tell me where would you like to go—Hastings?”

“But, Mr. Webster—”

“What sort of person has waited on you here? A nice woman?”

“A very nice woman, Nurse Margaret, Sister Margaret, they call her. She has been so good to me.”

“Then you shall go to Hastings with Sister Margaret to take care of you. And I shall expect to see quite a rosy face when I go down to see you. And now I am not going to stay any longer to-day and tire you. We have settled that you are to become a nurse, but first you must get quite well. I will see Brentwood and make all arrangements. For the present, good-by.”

He held out his hand, which May took tremulously. She dare not ask him any questions, nor even inquire after his aunts. She knew if she did she would break down, and he knew this also. They both ignored the past, or at least did not speak of it.

And when she next saw Doctor Brentwood after this interview with Ralph Webster, he told her that everything was settled. She was to go to Hastings in three days, and Sister Margaret, the hospital nurse, was to accompany her.

“And when you return I will see about receiving you here as a probationer,” said the doctor, “as Webster tells me you wish to become a nurse. Would you rather stay here, or go to another hospital?”

“I should rather stay here if I may,” answered May, gratefully.

“I think I can manage it. Yes, the sea-cure is the very thing for you, and I expect you will come back quite well.”

“But—but, Doctor Brentwood, about the expense? I can not—”

The doctor moved his well-shaped hand.

“That is all settled,” he said; “don’t you trouble your head about anything. Sister Margaret has instructions to arrange everything for you.”

And May found that Sister Margaret had instructions to go out and purchase everything she required in the way of dress or outfit. She was a nice, kind, sensible woman, whose own brow was not unlined with sorrow, and she felt great pity for the poor young widow—so May was supposed to be in the hospital—whom she had nursed through her grievous illness. She was also instructed to ask Mrs. Church no questions regarding her past life.

“She has had great troubles; let her try to forget them,” the doctor told the nurse. “She has youth to help her, and thinking of the past will do her no good.”

Ralph Webster saw May again before she left town for Hastings, but when she tried to thank him for all he had done for her he would not listen. To do anything for her indeed was his greatest happiness. But he tried to hide this, and did hide the strong, deep feelings of his heart.

But a painful incident occurred before he parted with her. Webster noticed that May was agitated, and suddenly her delicate skin flushed, and with quivering lips she asked him a question:

“Have you,” she said, in a broken voice, “seen or heard anything of—him?”

Webster hesitated, but he saw it was only cruel to prolong her suspense.

“I have heard nothing,” he answered, “of Mr. Temple; except I know a person who saw him one day.”

“Then he is still in London!” cried May, with deep emotion; “still—he must have made inquiries—he—he was sure to make inquiries—but no doubt he believes me dead. It is best that he should believe me dead!”

She suddenly broke down and burst into passionate sobs. In vain Webster entreated her to try and compose herself. It seemed as though the flood-gate of her emotion was let loose, and the long strain of silence broken.

“I am dead!” she kept on repeating; “dead to every one; no one knows I live but you.”

“And yet you pain me so deeply,” said Webster, in a low tone.

“Forgive me,” sobbed May, “but I thought I would ask.”

“Hush, hush! try not to think of all this. A new life is opening to you; try to go into it with a brave heart. Believe me, there is nothing like work; it deadens pain.”

There was an irrepressible ring of sadness in his voice as he said the last words, which told of his own hard struggle, the struggle of which May knew nothing. But something in his voice made her dry her tears and look at him. He was very pale, and his face had grown thinner and more marked, she noticed, and her heart reproached her for adding to his troubles.

“Forgive me for being so selfish,” she said, gently; “I—will not give way any more. But have you been ill? You do not look very well.”

“I have been too hard-worked, I suppose,” answered Webster, trying to smile. “I shall go down to Hastings for a day’s holiday while you are there, and that will freshen me up. And now, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Nothing, nothing indeed! You have only been too good.”

“That is all right then, and now good-by.”

He stooped down as he spoke and pressed his lips upon her hand, and then turned quickly away. And May looked after him gratefully.

“How good he is!” she thought; “what a noble heart he has! I wonder what made him look so sad.”

But a few minutes later Sister Margaret bustled into the room, and she, also, was full of Mr. Webster’s praise.

“What a thorough gentleman he is!” she said, quite enthusiastically. “Have you known him long, Mrs. Church?”

“For some time,” answered May, and her tone reminded Sister Margaret she had been instructed to ask Mrs. Church no questions regarding her past life.

Yet the good woman naturally felt curious, and had decided in her own mind that Mr. Webster must have been an old lover of the young widow’s, and she began to hope that it might end in a marriage. This was, of course, entirely her own theory, for she had certainly nothing to go on. For she and May were quite a fortnight at Hastings before they either saw or heard anything more of Mr. Webster.

She took comfortable rooms for May overlooking the sea, and the change of scene and fresh air soon began to revive the drooping invalid. And a strange change came over May’s mind also at this time. Sister Margaret had many a sad tale to tell her; tales of forsaken wives and broken hearts. Her experience of life had not lain along its smooth paths. She had trod the rough roads, and the sick and sorrowful had been her daily companions. And listening to her May began to learn that her case was not worse than others; her wound not more terrible than some of her fellow sufferers.

“I loved him too much,” she told herself; “it blinded me, and I believed he loved me as I loved him. But it was not the same.”

She did not even give John Temple his due, for he had not felt for her a brief passion that soon would pass away. He had loved her with a selfish love, no doubt, but with a love that made him put everything else aside for her sake. He thought, also, that she cared for him beyond and above all earthly things; that nothing would have torn her from his side.

She had not realized the shock, the horror of her awakening. It seemed to end everything for her, and now slowly struggling back to life, she told herself that John Temple had never really loved her. She had been his plaything; his “country sweetheart,” as he had often called her in his fond hours of love.

Sitting watching the long, rolling waves breaking up against the white cliffs, or the sea-birds winging their way above the foam, May told herself again and again that her life was done—that is, her life of happiness and hope. There remained but for her a cold and colorless existence, toiling for her daily bread. Yet she did not shrink from her fate. She accepted it as inevitable, and, after the first bitterness was passed, bore herself with a certain amount of heroism and calmness.

“I was mad that night, and but for Mr. Webster—” she sometimes thought, and would shudder as she did so.

“I wonder he has never been down to see us?” at last one day said Sister Margaret, at the very moment when May was vaguely thinking of the past.

The two were sitting together on the pier, in a bright, fresh day in the early winter time, when Sister Margaret made this remark. All around them was the deep blue sea, white-crested and sparkling in the sun. Visitors were strolling about, and the whole scene was cheerful and invigorating. May roused herself from her sad day-dreams to answer Sister Margaret.

“You mean Mr. Webster?” she said. “I dare say he is too busy to come.”

She looked up as she spoke, looked across the pier, and with a little start the next moment she recognized Ralph Webster. He was leaning back against the railing watching the two women he had come to see, and when his eyes met May’s he raised his hat and crossed over to speak to them.

“Good gracious, Mr. Webster!” cried Sister Margaret, when she saw him. “What a start you gave us! we were just speaking of you.”

“Were you?” he answered, and he shook hands with them both, and then sat down by May’s side.

“May I sit beside you?” he said, as he did so.

“I have been wondering,” he went on the next moment, smiling, “how long I should stand opposite to you without your seeing me? Do you know I’ve been quite five minutes over there?”

“Really!” said May. She felt nervous and agitated. Seeing him again so suddenly had brought the past more vividly before her.

“But I have not been wasting my time,” continued Webster, still smiling; “I have been seeing, and with great and sincere pleasure, how much you are improved. The sea air has made a wonderful difference in you.”

“Yes; doesn’t she look well?” said Sister Margaret, proudly.

“Indeed she does. This is a charming day,” went on Webster, looking up at the blue sky, and then down at the blue sea. “It seems like a rest to sit here; a rest from the worries of the world.”

“And have you been very busy?” asked May, half-shyly.

“I always work fairly hard, you know,” answered Webster.

May did not speak again for a few minutes. She was thinking of what she had often thought—how she had been first interested in Webster’s work in the case concerning Kathleen Weir’s diamonds. She was wondering if he ever saw her now—the woman he knew to be John Temple’s wife.

And Webster, watching her delicate profile, almost guessed what was passing in her mind. But he tried to change the current of her thoughts. He pointed out a white-sailed little vessel scudding before the wind; he talked of the sea and of the sky, and May listened, and for the time her troubles faded from her mind.

Suddenly, however, Sister Margaret seemed uneasy, and began to fidget with her silver watch, twice unhooking it from her waistband. She looked at May, but May did not notice her. At last she said, in a slightly marked tone:

“It is a quarter-past one o’clock, Mrs. Church.”

“Is it?” answered May, dreamily.

“Yes, and I am sure Mr. Webster must require some refreshment after his journey,” said Sister Margaret, in a very pointed manner.

May now understood.

“Oh! yes,” she said, rising. “Will you come and have lunch with us now, Mr. Webster?”

“I shall be very pleased, if you will allow me to do so,” he answered.

“Then, in that case, I will just hurry home and see that it is ready,” said Sister Margaret, with alacrity. She was a handy woman, and instantly made up her mind to add considerably to the usual chops at their midday meal, on her way through the town, in honor of their guest. But she did not wish him to know this.

“I will leave you in charge of Mr. Webster,” she went on, and in a moment later hurried away so quickly that Webster looked after her with a smile.

“I hope Sister Margaret is not going to give herself any trouble on my account,” he said.

May smiled; almost the first smile he had seen on her face since she had left Pembridge Terrace.

“I think she must wish to improve our usual lunch on your account,” she answered. “She is such a good, kind woman,” she continued, “and she has gone through so much trouble, Mr. Webster.”

“Her face rather gives you that impression. But she looks happy enough now—or at least content.”

“It would be a great thing to feel content.”

“A great thing, indeed; to know no longer the restless craving for something we can not obtain.”

“And—and do you think—” began May, and then she paused, hesitated, and slightly colored.

“Do I think what?” said Webster, and he turned round his head and looked at her.

“Do you think we could ever feel happy again—after a great blow, a great shock?”

“I think we could feel happy, but not the same happiness. A sort of sobered, perhaps, a wiser happiness, no doubt, might come to us.”

“It’s dangerous to be too happy,” said May, with downcast eyes and quivering lips.

“Not many of us have the chance of being so,” answered Webster, rising. “But, come, we must not keep Sister Margaret waiting.”

“No,” and May also rose, and together they walked down the pier, but Webster merely talked of the people that they passed on their way. He wished her to forget, for a time at least, the shadow on her young life; the grief that had made it so hard to bear.

Sister Margaret had not exerted herself in vain. In addition to the usual dish of chops, she had purchased a pigeon pie, a lobster, and various trifles on her way through the town. In fact, she looked on the repast she spread before Webster with pardonable pride. And he tried to make the whole thing pleasant. He told some good stories; he complimented Sister Margaret on her pie, and the good woman thoroughly enjoyed herself. And when lunch was over, Webster, after going to the window and looking at the smooth sea and the sailing boats scudding on its blue breast, proposed that they should go out for a sail, and Sister Margaret was quite delighted with the idea.

“I have not been out for a sail since I was a girl,” she said; “it will make me feel young again.”

“And you?” said Webster, looking at May, “would you like to go?”

“I think I should,” answered May, gently.

So they went down to the beach and engaged a sailing boat, and were soon flying on white wings before the light gale. It was a beautiful day, sunny, cloudless, almost warm, and yet with the crisp touch of the early winter in the clear air. That crisp touch brought a wild-rose bloom back once more to May’s fair oval cheeks; it brightened her eyes, and she smiled more than once as she sat by Webster’s side.

“I have never been on the sea before,” she said to Webster. “Do you remember when—” and for a moment she paused—“when we rode on the Thames?”

Yes, Webster remembered that day too well; remembered the beautiful girl sitting opposite to him in the boat, on the reedy river, and dipping her white hands in the stream. There was no shadow on her face then, nor sorrow in her heart. Only sunshine and hope, with the unknown future lying before her bathed in golden light.

But he made no allusion to these memories.

“I like the sea better than the river,” he said, and there swept over his heart a strange and passionate emotion as he spoke; a wish to bear May away from her troubles forever; to carry her to a new haven of rest and peace.

But by and by the short winter day began to close, and Sister Margaret drew her cloak nearer to her throat with a little shiver, and glanced uneasily at the distant shore.

“It is time we were returning, is it not, Mr. Webster?” she said.

These words roused Webster from his love-dream.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he said, and he gave directions to the boatmen to set sail for the shore. But it was nearly dark when they reached Hastings, and there was a silver track from a half-moon on the rippling tide.

They crossed this in the boat, and Webster hailed it as a good omen.

“It means a silver lining to our clouds,” he said; “a sign that we must always hope.”