lips, and kept him alive.  I landed with him at once:  and we nursed him on shore.  We had to be very cautious.  He improved.  We got him to take egg-flip.  He smiled on us at first, and then he thanked us.  I nursed him day and night for ten days.  He got much stronger.  He spoke to me, thanked me again and again, and told me his name was Christopher Staines.  He told me that he should never get well.  I implored him to have courage.  He said he did not want for courage; but nature had been tried too hard.  We got so fond of each other.  Oh!”—­and the caitiff pretended to break down; and his feigned grief mingled with Rosa’s despairing sobs.

He made an apparent effort, and said, “He spoke to me of his wife, his darling Rosa.  The name made me start, but I could not know it was you.  At last he was strong enough to write a few lines, and he made me promise to take them to his wife.”

“Ah!” said Rosa.  “Show them me.”

“I will.”

“This moment.”  And her hands began to work convulsively.

“I cannot,” said Falcon.  “I have not brought them with me.”

Rosa cast a keen eye of suspicion and terror on him.  His not bringing the letter seemed monstrous; and so indeed it was.  The fact is, the letter was not written.

Falcon affected not to notice her keen look.  He flowed on, “The address he put on that letter astonished me.  ‘Kent Villa.’  Of course I knew Kent Villa:  and he called you ‘Rosa.’”

“How could you come to me without that letter?” cried Rosa, wringing her hands.  “How am I to know?  It is all so strange, so incredible.”

“Don’t you believe me?” said Falcon sadly.  “Why should I deceive you?  The first time I came down to tell you all this, I did not know who Mrs. Staines was.  I suspected; but no more.  The second time I saw you in the church, and then I knew; and followed you to try and tell you all this; and you were not at home to me.”

“Forgive me,” said Rosa carelessly:  then earnestly, “The letter! when can I see it?”

“I will send, or bring it.”

“Bring it!  I am in agony till I see it.  Oh, my darling! my darling!  It can’t be true.  It was not my Christie.  He lies in the depths of the ocean.  Lord Tadcaster was in the ship, and he says so; everybody says so.”

“And I say he sleeps in hallowed ground, and these hands laid him there.”

Rosa lifted her hands to heaven, and cried piteously, “I don’t know what to think.  You would not willingly deceive me.  But how can this be?  Oh, Uncle Philip, why are you away from me?  Sir, you say he gave you a letter?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, why, why did you not bring it?”

“Because he told me the contents; and I thought he prized my poor efforts too highly.  It did not occur to me you would doubt my word.”

“Oh, no:  no more I do:  but I fear it was not my Christie.”

“I’ll go for the letter at once, Mrs. Staines.”