And did he grudge or envy the obvious interest and confidence that appeared to have sprung up between his cousin and his friend?  Not one bit.  Maurice had always had a higher appreciation of Francie and her aims and ideals than he himself had, much as he liked her; and it was but natural she should turn to the quarter from which she could derive most sympathy and practical help.  And if Maurice’s long-proclaimed admiration for Miss Savonarola should lead to a still closer bond between those two—­what then?

It was not jealousy that had hold of Lionel Moore’s heart just at this time; it was rather a curious unrest that seemed to increase as day by day went by without bringing any word of Nina.  Had she vouchsafed the smallest message, to say she was safe and well, to give him some notion of her whereabouts, it might have been different; but he knew not which way to turn, north, south, east, or west; at this season of kindly remembrance he could summon up no sort of picture of Nina and her surroundings.  If only he had known, he kept repeating to himself.  He had been so wrapped up in his idle dreams and visions that, all unwittingly, he had spurned and crushed this true heart beating close to his side.  And as for making amends, what amends could now be made; He only wanted to know that Nina was alive—­and could forgive.

As he sat by himself in the still watches of the night, plunged in silent reverie, strange fancies began to fill his brain.  He recalled stories in which he had read of persons separated by great distances communicating with each other by some species of spiritual telegraphy; and a conviction took possession of him that now, if ever—­now as the old year was about to go out and the new year come in—­he could call to Nina across the unknown void that lay between them, and that she would hear and perchance respond.  Surely, on New-Year’s Eve, Nina would be thinking of her friends in London; and, if their earnest and anxious thoughts could but meet her half-way, might there not be some sudden understanding, some recognition, some glad assurance that all was well?  This wild fancy so grew upon him that when the last day of the year arrived it had become a fixed belief; and yet it was with a haunting sense of dread—­a dread of he knew not what—­that he looked forward to the stroke of twelve.

He got through his performance that night as if he were in a dream, and hurried home; it was not far from midnight when he arrived.  He only glanced at the outside of the letters awaiting him; there was no one from her; not in that way was Nina to communicate with him, if her hopes for the future, her forgiveness for what lay in the past, were to reach him at all.  He drew a chair to the table and sat down, leaving the letters unheeded.