od in solitude, just above a low bank of
cliff whence the beach sank in sandy ridges. The verandah and thick pine
wood gave ample shade, and the beach all the sun and sea air needful to
tan little Gyp, a fat, tumbling soul, as her mother had been at the
same age, incurably fond and fearless of dogs or any kind of beast, and
speaking words already that required a glossary.

At night, Gyp, looking from her bedroom through the flat branches of the
pine, would get a feeling of being the only creature in the world. The
crinkled, silvery sea, that lonely pine-tree, the cold moon, the sky
dark corn-flower blue, the hiss and sucking rustle of the surf over the
beach pebbles, even the salt, chill air, seemed lonely. By day, too--in
the hazy heat when the clouds merged, scarce drifting, into the blue,
and the coarse sea-grass tufts hardly quivered, and sea-birds passed
close above the water with chuckle and cry--it all often seemed part
of a dream. She bathed, and grew as tanned as her little daughter, a
regular Gypsy, in her broad hat and linen frocks; and yet she hardly
seemed to be living down here at all, for she was never free of the
memory of that last meeting with Summerhay. Why had he spoken and put an
end to their quiet friendship, and left her to such heart-searchings
all by herself? But she did not want his words unsaid. Only, how to
know whether to recoil and fly, or to pass beyond the dread of letting
herself go, of plunging deep into the unknown depths of love--of that
passion, whose nature for the first time she had tremulously felt,
watching "Pagliacci"--and had ever since been feeling and trembling at!
Must it really be neck or nothing? Did she care enough to break through
all barriers, fling herself into midstream? When they could see each
other every day, it was so easy to live for the next meeting--not think
of what was coming after. But now, with all else cut away, there was
only the future to think about--hers and his. But need she trouble about
his? Would he not just love her as long as he liked?

Then she thought of her father--still faithful to a memory--and felt
ashamed. Some men loved on--yes--even beyond death! But, sometimes,
she would think: 'Am I a candle-flame again? Is he just going to burn
himself? What real good can I be to him--I, without freedom, and with my
baby, who will grow up?' Yet all these thoughts were, in a way, unreal.
The struggle was in herself, so deep that she could hardly unders