tten me. At least come away to a quiet place, where I can
speak freely to you; these people--"

"To-morrow morning," she said, waving her hand wearily. "I can't talk
now--and indeed there is no need to speak of this at all. I have
forgotten it."

"No, you have not; how could you?--And you will not go to-morrow; you
shall not."

"Yes, I must," she returned firmly.

"Then I shall go with you."

"As you like. I shall leave by the express at five minutes past nine."

"Then I shall be at the station. But at least I may walk home with you?"

"No, please. If you wish me to think you are sincere,--if you wish us
still to be friends--stay till I have left the pier.--Good night."

He muttered a return, and stood watching her as she walked quietly away.

When it was nearly midnight, Ida lay on her bed, dressed, as she had
lain since her return home. For more than an hour she had cried and
sobbed in blank misery, cried as never since the bitter days long ago,
just after her mother's death. Then, the fit over, something like a
reaction of calm followed, and as she lay perfectly still in the
darkness, her regular breathing would have led one to believe her
asleep. But she was only thinking, and in deed very far from sleep The
long day in the open air had so affected her eyes that, as she looked
up at the ceiling, it seemed to her to be a blue space, with light
clouds constantly flitting across it. Presently this impression became
painful, and a growing restlessness made her rise. The heat of the room
was stifling, for just above was the roof, upon which all day the sun
had poured its rays. She threw open the window, and drank in the air.
The night was magnificent, flooded with warm moonlight, and fragrant
with sea breathings. Ida felt an irresistible desire to leave the house
and go down to the shore, which she could not see from her window; the
tide, she remembered, would just now be full, and to walk by it in the
solitude of midnight would bring her that peace and strength of soul
she so much needed. She put on her hat and cloak, and went downstairs.
The front door was only latched, and, as she had her key, no doubt she
would be able to let herself in at any hour.

The streets were all but deserted, and, when she came to the beach, no
soul was anywhere visible. She walked towards the place where she had
spent the afternoon with Waymark, then onwards still further to the
east, till there was but a narrow space between the