lation, and she immediately prepared
to accompany him.

'No, not that place,' said Knight. 'It is ghastly to me, too. That
other, I mean; what is its name?--Windy Beak.'

Windy Beak was the second cliff in height along that coast, and, as is
frequently the case with the natural features of the globe no less than
with the intellectual features of men, it enjoyed the reputation of
being the first. Moreover, it was the cliff to which Elfride had ridden
with Stephen Smith, on a well-remembered morning of his summer visit.

So, though thought of the former cliff had caused her to shudder at the
perils to which her lover and herself had there been exposed, by being
associated with Knight only it was not so objectionable as Windy Beak.
That place was worse than gloomy, it was a perpetual reproach to her.

But not liking to refuse, she said, 'It is further than the other
cliff.'

'Yes; but you can ride.'

'And will you too?'

'No, I'll walk.'

A duplicate of her original arrangement with Stephen. Some fatality must
be hanging over her head. But she ceased objecting.

'Very well, Harry, I'll ride,' she said meekly.

A quarter of an hour later she was in the saddle. But how different
the mood from that of the former time. She had, indeed, given up her
position as queen of the less to be vassal of the greater. Here was no
showing off now; no scampering out of sight with Pansy, to perplex
and tire her companion; no saucy remarks on LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.
Elfride was burdened with the very intensity of her love.

Knight did most of the talking along the journey. Elfride silently
listened, and entirely resigned herself to the motions of the ambling
horse upon which she sat, alternately rising and sinking gently, like a
sea bird upon a sea wave.

When they had reached the limit of a quadruped's possibilities in
walking, Knight tenderly lifted her from the saddle, tied the horse, and
rambled on with her to the seat in the rock. Knight sat down, and drew
Elfride deftly beside him, and they looked over the sea.

Two or three degrees above that melancholy and eternally level line, the
ocean horizon, hung a sun of brass, with no visible rays, in a sky of
ashen hue. It was a sky the sun did not illuminate or enkindle, as is
usual at sunsets. This sheet of sky was met by the salt mass of
gray water, flecked here and there with white. A waft of dampness
occasionally rose to their faces, which was probably rarefied spray fro