“One rose from all the roses in Heaven!  One—­fadeless and immortal—­ only one, but sufficient for all!  One love from all the million loves of men and women—­one, but enough for Eternity!  How long the rose has awaited its flowering—­how long the love has awaited its fulfilment—­only the recording angels know!  Such roses bloom but once in the wilderness of space and time; such love comes but once in a Universe of worlds!”

And then I remembered the parting command:  “Rise and go hence!  Keep the gift God sends thee!—­take that which is thine!—­meet that which hath sought thee sorrowing for many centuries!  Turn not aside again, neither by thine own will nor by the will of others, lest old errors prevail.  Pass from vision into waking!—­from night to day!—­from seeming death to life!—­from loneliness to love!—­and keep within thy heart the message of a Dream!”

Dared I trust to these suggestions which the worldly-wise would call mere imagination?  A profound philosopher of these latter days has defined Imagination as ‘an advanced perception of truth,’ and avers that the discoveries of the future can always be predicted by the poet and the seer, whose receptive brains are the first to catch the premonitions of those finer issues of thought which emanate from the Divine intelligence.  However this may be, my own experience of life had taught me that what ordinary persons pin their faith upon as real, is often unreal,—­while such promptings of the soul as are almost incapable of expression lead to the highest realities of existence.  And I decided at last to let matters take their own course, though I was absolutely resolved to get away from the Harlands within the next two or three days.  I meant to ask Mr. Harland to land me at Portree, where I could take the steamer for Glasgow;—­any excuse would serve for a hurried departure—­and I felt now that departure was necessary.

A soft sound of musical bells reached my ears at this moment announcing dinner,—­and leaving the ‘princess’s’ apartment, I met Santoris at the entrance to the saloon.  There was no one else there for the moment but himself, and as I came towards him he took my hands in his own and raised them to his lips.

“You are not yet resolved!” he said, in a low tone, smiling—­“Take plenty of time!”

I lifted my eyes to his, and all doubt seemed swept away in the light of our mutual glances—­I smiled in response to his look,—­and we loosened our hands quickly as Mr. Harland with his doctor and secretary came down from the deck, Catherine joining us from the cabin where she had disburdened herself of her invalid wrappings.  She was rather more elegantly attired than usual—­she wore a curious purple-coloured gown with threads of gold interwoven in the stuff, and a collar of lace turned back at the throat gave her the aspect of an old Italian picture—­a sort of ’Portrait of a lady,—­Artist unknown.’  Not a pleasant portrait, perhaps—­but