d her sorrow and made much of her grief. She liked the
place. No obtrusive sympathy had ever made it odious to her. Here she
was mistress of herself and her own thoughts. To-day she went to her
favourite corner, a seat in an angle of the battlemented wall, and sat
there with her arms folded on the stone parapet, looking dreamily
seaward, across the blue channel to the still bluer coast of Normandy,
where the tower of Coutance showed dimly in the distance.

Resignation. Yes, that was to be her portion henceforward. She must
live out her life, in isolation almost as complete as Miss Skipwith's,
without the innocent delusions which gave substance and colour to that
lonely lady's existence.

"If I could only have a craze," she thought hopelessly, "some harmless
monomania which would fill my mind! The maniacs in Bedlam, who fancy
themselves popes or queens, are happy in their foolish way. If I could
only imagine myself something which I am not--anything except poor
useless Violet Tempest, who has no place in the world!"

The sun was gaining power, the air was drowsy, the soft ripple of the
tide upon the golden sand was like a lullaby. Even that long sleep of
the morning had not cured Vixen's weariness. There were long arrears of
slumber yet to be made up. Her eyelids drooped, then closed altogether,
the ocean lullaby took a still softer sound, the distant voices of the
tourists grew infinitely soothing, and Vixen sank quietly to sleep, her
head leaning on her folded arms, the gentle west wind faintly stirring
her loose hair.

"'Oh, happy kiss that woke thy sleep!'" cried a familiar voice close in
the slumberer's ear, and then a warm breath, which was not the summer
wind, fanned the cheek that lay upmost upon her arm, two warm lips were
pressed against that glowing cheek in ardent greeting. The girl started
to her feet, every vein tingling with the thrilling recognition of her
assailant. There was no one else--none other than he--in this wide
world who would do such a thing! She sprang up, and faced him, her eyes
flashing, her cheeks crimson.

"How dare you?" she cried. "Then it was you I saw in the fly? Pray, is
this the nearest way to Norway?"

Yes, it was Rorie; looking exactly like the familiar Rorie of old; not
one whit altered by marriage with a duke's only daughter; a stalwart
young fellow in a rough gray suit, a dark face sunburnt to deepest
bronze, eyes with a happy smile in them, firmly-cut lips half hidden