'Don't be, darling. The God we believe in _isn't_ a jealous God! That's
one of the notions one grows out of--over there.'

'Do you think He's our friend, George--that He really cares?'

The sweet appealing voice touched him unbearably.

'Yes, I do think it--' he said, firmly, after a pause. 'I do believe
it--with all my heart.'

'Then I'll believe it!' she said, with a long breath; and there was
silence again, till suddenly over the water came the sound of the Rydal
Chapel bell, striking midnight. Nelly withdrew her hands and sat up.

'George, we must go home. You must have a good night.'

He obeyed her, took up the oars, and pulled swiftly to the boathouse.
She sat in a kind of dream. It was all over, the heavenly time--all
done. She had had the very best of life--could it ever come again? In
her pain and her longing she was strangely conscious of growth and
change. The Nelly of three weeks back seemed to have nothing to do with
her present self, to be another human being altogether.

He made her go to bed, and remained in the sitting-room himself, under
pretence of some papers he must put in order. When the sounds in the
next room ceased, and he knew that she must be lying still, waiting for
him, he sat down, took pen and paper, and began to write to her--a
letter to be given to her if he fell. He had already written a letter of
business directions, which was at his lawyer's. This was of another
kind.