“No; but it makes me think. When you are away, I cannot help feeling sad, [20]often. Ah, my husband! how can I tell you all that you have been to me these happy, happy months?”

[20]

“My sweet wife!” he murmured, softly.

“And other wives love their husbands,” she went on in the same dreamy way, “and they see them go away over the dark sea, never to come back any more,” and she shivered.

“Let us go to the music-room, Monica,” said Randolph. “You shall play the hymn for those at sea.”

He knew the power of music to soothe her, when these strange moods of sadness and fear came upon her. They went to the organ together, and before half-an-hour had passed Monica was her own calm, serene self again.

“Monica,” said Randolph, “can you sing [21]something to me now—now that we are quite alone together? Do you remember that little sad, sweet song you sang the night before I went away to Scotland? Will you sing it to me now? I have so often wanted to hear it again.”

[21]

Monica gave him one quick glance, and struck the preliminary chords softly and dreamily.

Wonderfully rich and sweet her voice sounded; but low-toned and deep, with a subtle searching sweetness that spoke straight to the heart:

There was the least little quiver in her voice as it died into silence. Randolph bent over her and kissed her on the lips.

“Thank you,” he said. “It is a haunting [22]little song in its sad sweetness. Somehow, it seems like you, Monica.”

[22]

But she made no answer, for at that moment a sound reached their ears that made them both start, listening intently. Monica’s face grew white to the lips.

The sound was repeated with greater distinctness.

“A gun!” said Randolph.

“A ship in distress!” whispered Monica.

A ship in distress upon that cruel, iron-bound coast—a pitch-dark night and a rising gale!

 Prev. P 8/71 next