d to the stream which parted his patrimony from his
neighbour's grassy orchard. And there, beneath the apple tree, across
the clear, brown water stood Jacqueline. He forgot her no more.
"Fontenoy" was again the magic word, the "Open Sesame," but Jacqueline
was the wealth of all the world. He was young, and he was a man of
strong passions who had lived, perforce, a rigid, lonely, and ascetic
life. He had dreamed of most things, and he had dreamed of love. It was
the hectic vision of a hued pool. Love, entered, proved to be the sea,
boundless and strong, salt, clean, and the nurse of life. He loved
Jacqueline to the end of his life; he never swerved from allegiance to
the sea.

For a summer month he saw her almost every day,--twice or thrice beneath
the apple tree beside the stream, and at other times in Mrs. Jane
Selden's parlour, porch, or little friendly garden. He did not tell
Jacqueline that he loved her; he had not dared so much. The fact that he
was the son of Gideon Rand while she was a Churchill mattered little to
his common sense and his Republicanism. His blood was clean. He had
never heard of a Rand in prison or a beggar. Moreover, he meant to make
his name an honoured one. But he was a poor man, though he meant also to
become a rich man, and he was a Republican, with no thought of changing
his party. Politics might not matter, perhaps, to Miss Churchill, but
they mattered decidedly to her uncles and guardians, whom she loved and
obeyed. Wealth and birth mattered too, to them. Lewis Rand set no great
store upon obedience for obedience' sake, but he divined that Miss
Churchill rarely vexed those she loved. He had an iron will, and he set
his lips, and resolved that this was not the time to speak of that ocean
on whose shore he stood. He meant that the time should come. The
probability of a rejection he looked full in the face, and found that he
did not believe in it, though when he looked as fully at his assurance,
that, too, became incredibly without foundation. Jacqueline's spirit
might dwell in the mountains, and never dream of the sea; she gave him
no sign, and he could not tell. The summer month went by; she returned
to Fontenoy, and he saw her no more for a long time. When she was gone,
he fell upon work like a bereaved lion upon his prey. As best he might,
he would make that hunting do. He worked at first with lonely fury,
though at last with zest. Only by this road, he knew, could he enter the
gates of