Ave atque vale—­that was the inscription rudely cut within its round.  Greeting and farewell—­her own last words to him.  Oh, Beatrice, Beatrice! to you also ave atque vale.  You could not have sent a fitter message.  Greeting and farewell!  Did it not sum it all?  Within the circle of this little ring was writ the epitome of human life:  here were the beginning and the end of Love and Hate, of Hope and fear, of Joy and Sorrow.

Beatrice, hail!  Beatrice, farewell! till perchance a Spirit rushing earthward shall cry “Greeting,” in another tongue, and Death, descending to his own place, shaking from his wings the dew of tears, shall answer “Farewell to me and Night, ye Children of Eternal Day!”

And what was this other relic?  He lifted it—­it was Beatrice’s tennis shoe, washed from her foot—­Geoffrey knew it, for once he had tied it.

Then Geoffrey broke down—­it was too much.  He threw himself upon the great rock and sobbed—­that rock where he had sat with her and Heaven had opened to their sight.  But men are not given to such exhibitions of emotion, and fortunately for him the paroxysm did not last.  He could not have borne it for long.

He rose and went again to the edge of the sea.  At this moment old Edward and his son arrived.  Geoffrey pointed to the boat, then held up the little shoe.

“Ah,” said the old man, “as I thought.  Goad help her!  She’s gone; she’ll never come ashore no more, she won’t.  She’s twenty miles away by now, she is, breast up, with the gulls a-screaming over her.  It’s that there damned canoe, that’s what it is.  I wish to Goad I had broke it up long ago.  I’d rather have built her a boat for nothing, I would.  Damn the unlucky craft!” screamed the old man at the top of his voice, and turning his head to hide the tears that were streaming down his rugged face.  “And her that I nursed and pulled out of the waters once all but dead.  Damn it, I say!  There, take that, you Sea Witch, you!” and he picked up a great boulder and crashed it through the bottom of the canoe with all his strength.  “You shan’t never drown no more.  But it has brought you good luck, it has, sir; you’ll be a fortunit man all your life now.  It has brought you the Drowned One’s shoe.”

“Don’t break it any more,” said Geoffrey.  “She used to value it.  You had better bring it along between you—­it may be wanted.  I am going to the Vicarage.”

He walked back.  Mr. Granger and Elizabeth had not yet arrived, but they were expected every minute.  He went into the sitting-room.  It was full of memories and tokens of Beatrice.  There lay a novel which he had given her, and there was yesterday’s paper that she had brought from town, the Standard, with his speech in it.