The evening passed, and they went to bed without anything happening. But
in the partial darkness of the stair-landing, he seized her hand
passionately, and said--"Good-night, my Elizabeth, _my--my_ Elizabeth!"

She was not in a condition to return the pressure of his hand, and when
he approached his lips to her forehead, she hastily drew herself away.

"I came out here alone to tell you this, dear, dearest Elizabeth," he
whispered, with passion trembling in his voice, and making an effort to
draw her to him. "I must be on land again to-morrow. Must I go without
one sign that you care for me?"

She bent her forehead slowly towards him, and he kissed it, and she then
immediately left him.

"Good-night, my beloved one!" he whispered after her.

Elizabeth lay for a long while awake. She would have given anything to
have been able to cry, but the tears would not come; and she felt as if
she was freezing internally. When at last she did fall asleep, it was
not of him she dreamt, but of Salvé--the whole time of Salvé. She saw
him gazing at her with that earnest face--it was so heavy with grief,
and she stood like a criminal before him. He said something that she
could not hear, but she understood that he condemned her, and that he
had thrown the dress overboard.

She rose early, and tried to occupy her thoughts with other dreams--with
her future as an officer's lady. But it was as if all that had before
seemed to be pure gold was now changed to brass. She felt unhappy and
restless; and it was a long time before she could make up her mind to go