She was dead! That fiendish man had spoken the truth—Mellen believed it now. Elizabeth was dead, and he had killed her—that noble, grand woman, so resolute in her sacrifice, so determined to save that girl, to preserve him from the hardest shock to his honor and pride, had offered herself up to death, body and soul.

Those few moments of conviction changed him more than many years would have done. The pride and anger which had helped to aid him in his first grief were gone now—he was the wronger—searching for the wife he had driven forth to perish. And she was dead!

No clue—no hope!

He did not touch the shawl, but leaving Tom Fuller, went back and sat down in Elsie's room, with the sick girl's delirious cries smiting his ear, and terrible images rising before his eyes of Elizabeth—dying, dead—drowned and dashed upon some lonely beach, with her cold, open eyes staring blankly in his face.

Tom dropped the shawl in a wet mass at his feet, and walked away without attempting to detain or comfort the stricken husband. He too believed Elizabeth dead, and had no heart to offer consolation. Indeed, the pang of sorrow that this conviction brought took away his own strength.

He walked on, over the wet sands of the beach, ready to cry out with the anguish of this sudden bereavement, when the figure of old Caleb Benson cast its long shadow on the shore.

"Is that you, Mr. Fuller, and alone? I'm mighty pleased to find any one from the Cove—most of all you."

"Do you want me for anything particular?" asked Tom in a husky voice; "if not I—I'm engaged just now."

"Well, yes; I must tell you," said the old man. "I've bin to your house twice—once in the night—I thought mebby I'd see the young gal."

"What is it?" asked Tom, in the impotence of his grief.

"She made me promise not to tell—but whatever's wrong, you're her cousin, and can't be hard on her—she's dreadful sick."

Tom caught his arm.

"My cousin—are you talking of my cousin, Mrs. Mellen?"

"Why yes, sure enough, though she never will forgive me for telling you."

"But where is she? Where is she?" shouted Tom. "How did you find her? Who got her out of the water? Great heavens, old man, can't you speak?"

"Well, this is the way it was," answered the old man. "T'other night, or morning, for it was nigh on to daylight, I was eating breakfast with the young uns, when one on 'em got scared by a face at the winder looking in on us as we eat. I jist got one sight of the face, and kinder seemed to know it. So up I jumps, and on with my great coat, and out into the fog. Something gray went on afore me, and I follered, for sometimes it looked like a woman, and sometimes not. Down it went, making a bee-line for the beach, and I arter it full split, for it travelled fast, I can tell you. The night had been kinder rough, and the waves dashed up high, considering that the storm wasn't nothing much to speak on. But the woman, for I could see that it was a woman now, went right straight on, as if she'd made up her mind to pitch head forred into the sea and drown herself the first thing.

"This riled me up, and I went on arter her like a tornado, now I tell you. But jist as I was reaching out both hands to drag her back from a wave that came roaring along, it broke, and the undertow sucked her in right afore my face.

"Now some folks might a pitched in arter her, but I knew better'n that. We should both on us have gone to kingdom come and no mistake if I had. Not a bit of it; I planted myself firm and waited. Sure enough the second wave arter that came tearing along, tossing the poor cretur up and down like a wisp of seaweed, and pitched her ashore right in my tracks.

"In course the next wave would have dragged her out to sea agin, but I got hold of her shawl and tried to haul her back, but the tarnal thing gave way, and I had just time to drop it and make a grab at her clothes, when it came crashing over us agin. But I held on, and planted myself firm, so it only dragged us both a foot or two and went roaring off. Then I got a fair hold of the lady and dragged her up the beach out of harm's way. But I really thought that she was dead; the daylight broke while she lay on the sand, and then I saw who it was, and the sight of her cold face drove me wild. I took her up in my arms and carried her home. There was a good fire burning, and my darter is used to taking care of sich cases. So she wrapped her in hot blankets, and worked over her till the life came back."

"And she's alive—doing well," cried Tom, "at your house; old Benson, you're—a—a—trump. If I hadn't given away every gold piece I had in my pocket, you should have a double handful—by Jove, you should! But never mind, just come along, I must have one splendid hug, and then for the Cove. No, no, that won't be fair after all," thought the generous fellow, "Grant must have the first kiss, he must tell her——"

The thought of what must be told her went through the poor fellow's brain like an arrow of fire. But he dashed into the path which led to Piney Cove, calling back to Benson, "Don't tell her anything!" and strode away.

Breathless, eager, forgetful of his own great sorrow, Tom cleared the distance between the shore and Piney Cove with enormous strides. He crossed the lawn almost at a run, leaped up the steps two at a time, and found Mellen lying upon a sofa in the balcony, with his face to the wall.

"Get up, old fellow, get up and shake yourself," he cried, seizing upon Mellen and turning him over as if he had been a Newfoundland dog in the wrong place; "I've found her—by Jove, I have!—she's at old Benson's. Isn't he a brick? She's well—no, she isn't quite that according to the latest accounts, but by all that's sacred, your wife is alive!"

Mellen started to his feet, bewildered, wild.

"Tom Fuller, is this true?"

"Do I look like a man who tells lies for fun?" said Tom, drawing himself up.

"Have you seen her—is my wife truly alive?"

"Yes—no—no—I haven't seen her—was in too great a hurry for that. But she's there at Benson's tavern, just as sure—as sure—as a gun."

Mellen brushed past the kind fellow while he was hesitating for a comparison. His saddle horse stood at the door—for he had been too excited for any orders regarding it. He sprang upon its back and dashed across the lawn, through the grove and out of sight, quickly as a fast horse could clear the ground. He drew up in front of old Benson's house, leaped off and rushed in.

"Where is she?" he cried, to the frightened woman who met him. "My wife—where is she?"

A cry from the upper room answered his words; he dashed into the apartment. There, on the humble bed, lay Elizabeth, pale and changed, but alive!

She was cowering back in deadly terror—putting out her hands in wild appeal.

"I'm going away," she moaned; "don't kill me! I can start now—I'll go—I'll go!"

He fell on his knees by the bed, he was telling the truth in wild, broken words.

"Only forgive me, Elizabeth; only forgive me; my wife, my darling, can you forgive me? You would if my heart lay in your hands. Oh, Elizabeth, speak to me!"

She could not comprehend what he was saying at the moment; when she did understand, her first thought was of the girl—his sister.

"Elsie! Elsie!"

"She is ill—dying perhaps. Oh, my wife! my wife! Try to speak—say that you forgive me."

She was too greatly agitated for words then, but she put out her hands with a gesture he understood. He lifted her in his arms and folded her close to his heart. She lay in their passionate clasp with a long sigh of content.

"God is very good," she whispered; "oh, my beloved, let us thank Him."

There, in that lowly room, Grantley Mellen held his wife to his bosom and the last fire of his old wrong impetuous nature, went out forever in thankfulness and tears.