Mrs. Wylie looked again at the signature in a curious, mechanical way, as if verifying it. 'Theodore Trist.' Two simple words in bold abruptness without flourish, scroll, or ornament. A clear running caligraphy, strong and plain, rapid, legible, straightforward and purposeful, fresh from the fingers now still in death.
The last time the name was ever written by its possessor was at the foot of that letter to Brenda.
The girl herself stood at the window, looking over the snow-clad moorland to the gray sea. Her back was turned towards the room; her white hands hung motionless at her side. Near to her the telegrams lay on a small table, half unfolded, disclosing their short brutality of diction.
Outside, the sun shone down on the glancing sea. The waves gleamed white, and on the shingle sang their everlasting song. All the world was lovely. The sea-birds whirled in mid-air, and shrieked fantastically for very joy. They had no thought of their own end—-no doubts as to the purpose of their creation—no question as to the wisdom of their Creator. Only man—the lord of all the earth—has these!
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.