He stooped and kissed the rain-wet sod above the grave, then walked swiftly away in the direction of Bangor, and took the first through train to Liverpool.  On arriving at the hotel he learned that his aunt had already gone to the wharf with her friends, and taking a cab, he, too, was driven there, meeting with Neil, who confounded and disgusted him with his apparent indifferences and heartlessness.

Absorbed in his own sad refection, Grey had no thought for any of his fellow passengers, whether steerage or cabin, and disguised by her hood and vail, Bessie might have brushed against him without recognition.

So he had no idea how near she was to him, and as the motion of the ship soon began to affect him, he went to his state-room, which he scarcely left again for several days.  Once, when the doctor was visiting him, his aunt, who was present, asked if there were many sick among the steerage passengers, and if they were comfortable?

There was but one who was very sick, the doctor replied, and her case puzzled him, she seemed so superior to her class, and so reticent with regard to herself.

“I will go and see her,” Lucy said, and that afternoon she made her visit to Bessie, with the result we have seen.

Puzzled and curious, she went next to her nephew, whom she found dressed and in his sea-chair, which had been brought into his state-room.  He was better, and was going on deck as soon as the steward could come and help him.  Sitting down beside him, Lucy began rather abruptly: 

“I have heard you talk a great deal of Neil McPherson, whose father is brother to Miss Betsey McPherson, of Allington, and I have heard you speak of a Bessie McPherson.  Do you know where she is?”

Grey’s face was white as marble, while a spasm of pain passed over his features as he said:  “Oh, Aunt Lucy, you do not know how you hurt me Why did you speak of her?”

“Because I have a suspicion that she is on the ship,” Lucy replied; but Grey shook his head mournfully as he said to her: 

“That is impossible; Bessie is dead.  She died in Rome last spring.  She was sick with the fever all the time we were there, and I was with her every day, but did not tell you, as I knew you would be so anxious for me.  And when she died I could not talk of her to any one.  Poor little Bessie!  She was so young, and sweet, and pure.  You would have loved her so much.”

“Yes,” Lucy said, taking one of Grey’s hands, and holding it caressingly, for she guessed what was in his heart.  “Tell me about her if you can.  You say she is dead, and you are sure?”

“Yes, sure,” he answered.  “I did not see her die, it is true, but I know she is dead, and I have stood by her grave at Stoneleigh.  When I left you in London I went to her grave, and I believe I left all my life and soul there with her.  I never thought I could talk to any one of her, but it seems to me now it would be a relief to tell you about her.  Shall I?”