, I've longed for this moment."

"You must have treated yourself very badly then," she answered.

"I did. I----"

"Look," said Jenny sharply. "It's no good for you to start off, because
I don't want to listen to _any_thing you say. I don't _want_ to."

"I don't deserve you should," Maurice humbly agreed. "All the same I
wish you would."

It may have been that in his voice some vibrant echo of past pleading
touched her, so that across a gulf of four years the old Jenny asked:

"Why should I?"

He seemed on fire to seize the chance of explanation and would no doubt
have forthwith plunged into a wilderness of emotions, had not Jenny seen
May signaling from the towans.

"She wants me to go over to her."

"But you'll come out here again?"

"I might--I might come out on the cliffs over there." She pointed
towards Crickabella. "I don't know. I don't think I shall. But don't try
and see me at home, because I wouldn't know you there."

She ran from him suddenly across the sands back to May.

"Why did you wave like that?" she asked.

"I think there's been somebody watching you," said May, looking pale and
anxious.

Chapter XLVII: _Nightlight Time_

Trewhella gave no sign that he knew anything of the event on the sands;
yet Jenny's instinct was to avoid a meeting with Maurice. Once or twice,
indeed, she was on the point of starting out; but she never brought
herself to the actual effort, and the May days went by without her
leaving the precincts of Bochyn. Maurice had made but a small impression
upon her emotion; had raised not a single heartbeat after the first
shock of his approach over the long sands. She had no curiosity to
discover why he had come down here, with what end in view, with what
impulse. She cared not to know what his life had been in those four
years, what seas or shores he had adventured, what women he had known.
Yet somehow she felt, through a kind of belated sympathy, that every
morning he was out on the cliffs by Crickabella watching for a sight of
her coming up the hill. Should she go? Should she finally dismiss him,
speaking coldly, contemptuously, lashing him with her scorn and wounded
pride and dead love? June was in view, and still she paused. June came
in, royally azure. Yet she hesitated; while young Frank waved to the
butterflies and grew daily in the sun like a peach.

"He do look so happy as the King of Spain," said old Mr. Champion.
"Grand lill chap, he is sure enough. D