"Good-by, my dear friend; good-by, good-by!
"OLIVIA."
The last line was written in a shaken, irregular hand, and her name was half blotted out, as if a tear had fallen upon it. I remained there alone on the wild and solitary cliffs until it was time to return to the steamer.
Tardif was waiting for me at the entrance of the little tunnel through which the road passes down to the harbor. He did not speak at first, but he drew out of his pocket an old leather pouch filled with yellow papers. Among them lay a long curling tress of shining hair. He touched it gently with his finger, as if it had feeling and consciousness.
"You would like to have it, doctor?" he said.
"Ay," I answered, and that only. I could not venture upon another word.
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD.
THE EBB OF LIFE.