“I knew not why I had such a strong desire to come here,” he said “but now see clearly what drew me in this direction.  The feeling to come was overpowering, and I could not resist it.”

They walked, and conversed of all the past, until finally, the question of so momentous interest to both was approached, and Ralph pleaded as none but a lover can.

A long silence ensued.  Hope and fear, doubt and uncertainty, came and went, and every moment seemed to him an age.

Dawn at length turned her face slowly towards him, and then raised her eyes to heaven, as if imploring its aid.  The deep working of her spirit was plainly depicted upon her features; first the conflict, then the triumph.

“I must walk alone.  I love you, Ralph, as I have never loved before; but I have a mission on earth; one which I cannot share with another.  To its service I dedicate my life.”

She sprang towards him, threw her arms for an instant around his neck; then, tearing herself away, was gone before he could fully realize what had happened.

Slowly the reality of what had occurred came upon him, like a storm more terrible for its slow approach.

“O, that I had not seen her to-day,” he said, “for then hope would have been left me.  Now, all is over.  With me life must be gone through with mechanically, not lived earnestly; happiness must be relinquished, peace and rest prayed for.”

When Marion and Edith came in search of him, the crisis of his great grief was past, but the white face showed it was not the Ralph who left them.

“Why, you are ill; what has happened?” was his sisters’ ejaculation.

“I came near sinking.”

“Were you bathing?” they both asked, together.

“In sorrow’s sea,” he was about to say, but kept the words back, and appeared cheerful for their sakes.

“Then a wave did really come over you, Ralph?” said his sister, looking anxiously into his face.

“Yes, a strong one.  I came near going under.”

They did not know that he spoke in correspondences, and accepted the literal explanation, which was true in the abstract.

“You look as though you had concentrated a dozen years into one day,” said Mr. Wyman, as he met Dawn at the door.

“I have had a very intense day.”

“You should have taken more time, child.”

This was her first unshared sorrow, and she longed to be away, alone.  It seemed as though an ocean rolled, for the time, between herself and her father, and she hastily left him and sought her room.  That night none but angels witnessed her struggles, and the peace which afterwards flowed into her troubled heart.

When morning came, with light and love in her face, she went below, and those who met her knew not the conflict of the night,—­the great darkness,—­so brilliant was her morning.

“I am going to the city, to-day, to make some purchases:  my wardrobe needs replenishing.”