She had not desired even to see Mirko once more.

She had no morbid fancies; it was his soul she loved and remembered, not the poor little suffering body.
It came to her as a comfort that her uncle and Mimo had met and shaken hands in forgiveness, and now poor Mimo was coming to say good-bye to her that afternoon.
He was leaving England at once, and would return to his own country and his people.

In his great grief, and with no further ties, he hoped they would receive him.

He had only one object now in life--to get through with it and join those he loved in some happier sphere.
This was the substance of what he said to Zara when he came; and they kissed and blessed one another, and parted, perhaps for ever.

The "Apache" and the "London Fog," which would never be finished now he feared--the pain would be too great--would be sent to her to keep as a remembrance of their years of life together and the deep ties that bound them by the memory of those two graves.
And Zara in her weakness had cried for a long time after he had left.
And then she realized that all that part of her life was over now, and the outlook of what was to come held out no hope.
Francis Markrute had telegraphed to Wrayth, to try and find Tristram, but he was not there.