ills of life, and the contrariness of woman for the other half.
Confound money! Confound--Well, truly, his state of mind was not a
happy one.

X

But there was something in the crisp Sark air that, by degrees and all
unconsciously, braced both mind and body;--something broadening and
uplifting in the wide free outlook from every headland; something
restorative of the grip of life in the rush and roar of the mighty
waves and the silent endurance of the rocks; something so large and
aloof and restful in the wide sweep of sea and sky; something so
hopeful and regenerative in the glorious exuberance of the spring--the
flaming gorse, the mystic stretches of bluebells, the sunny sweeps of
primroses, the soft uncurlings of the bracken, the bursting life of
the hedgerows, the joyous songs of the larks--that presently, and in
due season, earthly worries began to fall back into their proper
places below the horizon, and a new Graeme--a Graeme born of Sark and
Trouble--looked out of the old Graeme eyes and began to contemplate
life from new points of view.

It took time, however. Love is a plant of most capricious and
surprising growth. It may take years to root and blossom. It may
spring up in a day, yet strike its roots right through the heart and
hold it as firmly as the growth of the years. And, once the heart is
enmeshed in the golden filaments, it is a most dolorous work to
disentangle it.

For the first two weeks his mind ran constantly on his loss.
Momentarily it might be diverted by outward things, but always it came
back with a sharp shock, and a bitter sense of deprivation, to the
fact that Margaret Brandt had passed out of his life and left behind
her an aching void.

Did he sit precariously among the ragged scarps and pinnacles of
Little Sark, while the western seas raged furiously at his feet and
the Souffleur shot its rockets of snowy spray high into the gray
sky--through the passing film of the spray, and the marbled coils of
the tumbling waves, the face of Margaret Brandt looked out at him.

Did he stride among the dew-drenched, gold-spangled gorse bushes on
the Eperquerie, while the sun came up with ever fresh glories behind
the distant hills of France--Margaret's face was there in the sunrise.

Did he stand above Havre Gosselin in the gloaming, while the sun sank
behind Herm and Guernsey in splendours such as he had never dreamed
of--just so, he said to himself, Margaret had gone out of his life and