ttle grey church,
where even now many were worshipping in peace.

"Pray for me!" she sighed out, as this object caught her eye.

And now, close under the heathery fields, where they fell softly down
and touched the sands, she saw a figure moving in the direction of
the great shadow made by the rocks--going towards the very point
where the path from Eagle's Crag came down to the shore.

"It is he!" said she to herself. And she turned round and looked
seaward. The tide had turned; the waves were slowly receding, as
if loath to lose the hold they had, so lately, and with such swift
bounds, gained on the yellow sands. The eternal moan they have made
since the world began filled the ear, broken only by the skirl of the
grey sea-birds as they alighted in groups on the edge of the waters,
or as they rose up with their measured, balancing motion, and the
sunlight caught their white breasts. There was no sign of human life
to be seen; no boat, or distant sail, or near shrimper. The black
posts there were all that spoke of men's work or labour. Beyond a
stretch of the waters, a few pale grey hills showed like films; their
summits clear, though faint, their bases lost in a vapoury mist.

On the hard, echoing sands, and distinct from the ceaseless murmur of
the salt sea waves, came footsteps--nearer--nearer. Very near they
were when Ruth, unwilling to show the fear that rioted in her heart,
turned round, and faced Mr Donne.

He came forward, with both hands extended.

"This is kind! my own Ruth," said he. Ruth's arms hung down
motionless at her sides.

"What! Ruth, have you no word for me?"

"I have nothing to say," said Ruth.

"Why, you little revengeful creature! And so I am to explain all
before you will even treat me with decent civility."

"I do not want explanations," said Ruth, in a trembling tone. "We
must not speak of the past. You asked me to come in Leonard's--in my
child's name, and to hear what you had to say about him."

"But what I have to say about him relates to you even more. And how
can we talk about him without recurring to the past? That past, which
you try to ignore--I know you cannot do it in your heart--is full of
happy recollections to me. Were you not happy in Wales?" he said, in
his tenderest tone.

But there was no answer; not even one faint sigh, though he listened
intently.

"You dare not speak; you dare not answer me. Your heart will not
allow you to prevaricate, and you know you were