f to
the shore.

It was June. A soft breeze came over the sea, salt and pure, with the
life-giving quality of the great spaces. She breathed it deeply,
thankfully, conscious of returning strength.

She and Jeanie had arrived only the week before, and she was sure their
visit was going to do wonders for them both. Her own convalescence had
been a protracted one, but she told herself as she walked along the beach
towards the smiling, evening sea that she was already stronger than her
companion. The old lassitude was evidently very heavy upon Jeanie. The
smallest exertion seemed to tax her energies to the utmost. She had never
shaken off her cough, and it seemed to wear her out.

Avery had spoken to Lennox Tudor about her more than once, but he never
discussed the subject willingly. He was never summoned to the Vicarage
now, and, when they chanced to meet, the Vicar invariably reserved for
him the iciest greeting that courtesy would permit. Tudor had defeated
him once on his own ground, and he was not the man to forget it. So
poor Jeanie's ailments were given none but home treatment to alleviate
them, and it seemed to Avery that her strength had dwindled almost
perceptibly of late.

She pondered the matter as she strolled along the shore, debating with
herself if she would indeed take a step that she had been contemplating
for some time, and, now that Jeanie was in her care, take her up to town
and obtain Maxwell Wyndham's opinion with regard to her. It was a project
she had mentioned to no one, and she hesitated a good deal over putting
it into practice. That Mrs. Lorimer would readily countenance such an act
she well knew, but she was also aware that it would be regarded as a
piece of rank presumption by the child's father which might easily be
punished by the final withdrawal of Jeanie from her care. That was a
contingency which she hardly desired to risk. Jeanie had become so
infinitely precious to her in those days.

Unconsciously her feet had turned towards their old haunt. She found
herself halting by the low square rock on which Piers once had sat and
cursed the sea-birds in bitterness of spirit. Often as she had visited
the spot since, she had never done so without the memory of that spring
morning flashing unbidden through her brain. It went through her now like
a sharp dart of physical pain; the boyish figure, the ardent eyes, the
black hair plastered wet on the wide, patrician brow. Her heart
contracted.