"I am glad of it," she whispered; "it's an awful thing to say, but I am glad. It saves Marion. We shall never see her again; but I am glad she is saved."
* * * * *
A young couple were looking down on the Mediterranean from the terrace of an old garden filled with the choicest flowers. The man looked bronzed and well, the girl radiantly happy. For grief has no abiding place in the eyes of youth.
"Doesn't it seem wonderful, Geoffrey?" the girl said. "Positively I cannot realize that we have been married three weeks. I shall wake up presently and find myself back at Ravenspur again wondering what dreadful thing is going to happen next."
Geoffrey touched a letter that lay in Vera's lap.
"Here is the evidence of our freedom," he said. "Read it to me, please."
Vera picked up the letter. There was no heading. Then she read:
"I am near you and yet far off. I hear little things from the world from time to time, and I know that you are married to Geoffrey. I felt that I must write you a few lines.
"I am in a convent here, in a convent from whence I can never emerge again. Heaven knows how many human tragedies are bound up in these gray old walls. But of all the miserable wretches here there is none more miserable than myself. Still, in my new faith I have found consolation. I know that there is hope even for sinners as black as myself.
"Will it sound strange to you to hear that I long and yearn for you always; that I still love those whom I would have destroyed? I meant to write you a long letter, but my heart is too full. Do not reply, because we are not allowed to have letters here.
"Heaven bless you both and give you the happiness you deserve!
"Marion."
Geoffrey took up the letter and tore it into minute fragments. The gentle breeze carried it over the oleanders and lemon trees like snow.
Down below the blue sea sparkled and the world seemed full of the pure delight of life.