his merry
playmate. The auks and puffins, scared from their rocky perches, plunged
into the ocean, and rose at a little distance to look for the reason of
the disturbance. Seeing no further cause for alarm they gained courage
and gradually returned, and their quaint, ungainly forms stood in
wondering groups about the motionless girl, who lay with one arm
stretched in the cold water of the bay.

In the meantime her friends were awaiting Marie's return for the mid-day
meal. But she came not; and they finally went in search of her, calling
her name along the shore, but receiving no answer save the wild cry of
the gull as it circled above them, and the weird laugh of the great
diver calling to his answering mate. They knew her favourite point of
rock, and on reaching it found the little fox still standing on the
edge, and looking down. As they approached, it bounded suddenly off, and
disappeared among the bushes.

His heart sinking with a vague dread of fresh misfortune, Claude went to
the edge of the cliff, and looked over. He saw at once what had
happened. The stones at the top were loose and freshly disturbed, and
the low shrubs which fringed the rock were crushed and broken. Hastily
drawing Marguerite back, and bidding her return at once to the hut and
warn Bastienne to get restoratives and blankets in readiness, he hurried
round to the base of the cliff. The tide was rapidly rising, and the
distance was considerable. With all his haste he was only just in time.
As he rounded the projecting spur that formed one side of the bay, the
water, which had at first covered only one of Marie's arms, reached her
hair, and in a few minutes more must have risen over her face. De
Pontbriand drew the bruised and senseless form higher up the rocks, and
eagerly felt her heart. There was a faint, slow beating that told him a
feeble life still fluttered there. Raising her in his arms he bore her
with all possible speed to the hut, where every means that their
resources and skill could suggest to restore her to consciousness was
tried, and, as it seemed, in vain. At last, as the short October
afternoon faded out in a purple haze, and the sad, grey evening closed
about them, Marie opened her eyes. She was quite conscious, and seemed
to suffer no pain. But the end was evidently close at hand. She spoke
but little, and lay very quietly, with Marguerite's hand in hers. Just
before it grew too dark for them to see her, she beckoned to Claude