"I remember, Agnes," I said, with a regretful sigh. "My voyage has been
a lonely one since then."

"Are you not happy, Basil?" she asked, with a tender pity thrilling her
low voice.

"Happy?" I echoed, bitterly,--"how can I be happy, remembering what
might have been?"

Agnes bowed her head upon her hands, and silently the boat shot into the
black shadow of the arch. A sudden eddy seemed to sway us slightly from
our course, and the waves dashed sullenly against the gloomy walls;
a moment more and we glided into calmer waters and unbroken light. I
looked up from my task to speak, but the words were frozen on my lips
by a cry from Agnes, who, wild-eyed and pale, seemed pointing to some
phantom which I could not see. I turned,--the phantom was Effie's empty
seat. The shining stream grew dark before me, and a great pang of
remorse wrung my heart as that sight met my eyes.

"Effie!" I cried, with a cry that rent the stillness of the night, and
sent the name ringing down the river. But nothing answered me, and the
waves rippled softly as they hurried by. Far over the wide stream went
my despairing glance, and saw nothing but the lilies swaying as they
slept, and the black arch where my child went down.

Agnes lay trembling at my feet, but I never heeded her,--for Jean's
dead voice sounded in my ear, demanding the life confided to my care. I
listened, benumbed with guilty fear, and, as if summoned by that weird
cry, there came a white flash through the waves, and Effie's face rose