with us."

"Do you really wish it?" she asked.

"I should like it; I think it would do us all good. And, after all,
yours is but a fancy, Frances."

"If we go at all," she said, "let us go to the great Northern sea, not
to the South, where it is smiling and treacherous."

"Those southern seas hide much," I said; and again she looked at me with
a curious, intent gaze--a far-off gaze, as though she were trying to
make something out.

"What do they hide, John?" asked Lance, indifferently.

"Sharp rocks and shifting sands," I answered.

"So do the Northern seas," he replied.

A soft, sweet voice said: "Every one has his own taste. I love the
country; you love the sea. I find more beauty in this bunch of lilac
than I should in all the seaweed that was ever thrown on the beach; to
me there is more poetry and more loveliness in the ripple of the leaves,
the changeful hues of the trees and flowers, the corn in the fields, the
fruit in the orchards, than in the perpetual monotony of the sea."

"That is not fair, Frances," cried Lance. "Say what you will, but never
call the sea monotonous--it is never that; it always gives on the
impression of power and majesty."

"And of mystery," I interrupted.

"Of mystery," she repeated, and the words seemed forced from her in
spite of herself.

"Yes, of mystery!" I said. "Think what is buried in the sea! Think of
the vessels that have sank laden with human beings! No one will know
one-third of the mysteries of the sea until the day when she gives up
the dead."

The spray of lilac fell to the ground. She rose quickly and made no
attempt to regain it.

"It is growing chilly," she said; "I will go into the house."

"A strange thing that my wife does not like the sea," said Lance.

But it was not strange to my mind--not strange at all.

CHAPTER VIII.

My suspicion, from that time, I felt was a truth. I knew that there were
characters so complex that no human being could understand them. Here
was a beautiful surface--Heaven only knew what lay underneath. There was
no outward brand of murder on the white brow, or red stain on the soft,
white hand. But day by day the certainty grew in my mind. Another thing
struck me very much. We were sitting one day quite alone on the grass
near a pretty little pool of water, called "Dutton Pool." In some parts
it was very shallow, in some very deep. Lance had gone somewhere on
business, and had left us to entertain each other. I h