ing down into his grave without a stain upon him.
Only he had shown such foul contempt of Aubyn Auberley, proceeding to
extremes of ill-behaviour toward his raiment, that for months young
Frida had been forced to keep him chained, and take her favourite walks
without him.

"Ah, Lear!" now she cried, with sense of long injustice toward him; "you
were right, and I was wrong; at least--at least it seems so."

"Lear," so called whether by some man who had heard of Shakspere, or (as
seems more likely) from his peculiar way of contemplating the world at
his own angle, shook his ears when thus addressed, and looked too wise
for any dog to even sniff his wisdom.

Frida now allowed this dog to lead the way, and she would follow,
careless of whatever mischief might be in the road for them. So he led
her, without care or even thought on her part, to a hut upon the beach
of Woody Bay; where Albert had set up his staff, to think of her and
watch her. This, her cousin and true lover, had been grieving for her
sorrow to the utmost power of a man who wanted her himself. It may have
been beyond his power to help saying to himself sometimes, "How this
serves her right, for making such a laughing-stock of me!" Nevertheless,
he did his utmost to be truly sorrowful.

And now, as he came forth to meet her, in his fishing dress and boots
(as different a figure as could be from Aubyn Auberley), memories of
childish troubles and of strong protection thrilled her with a helpless
hope of something to be done for her. So she looked at him, and let him
see the state her eyes were in with constant crying, when there was not
anyone to notice it. Also, she allowed him to be certain what her hands
were like, and to be surprised how much she had fallen away in her
figure. Neither was she quite as proud as might have been expected, to
keep her voice from trembling or her plundered heart from sobbing. Only,
let not anybody say a word to comfort her. Anything but that she now
could bear, as she bore everything. It was, of course, the proper thing
for everyone to scorn her. That, of course, she had fully earned, and
met it, therefore, with disdain. Only, she could almost hate anybody who
tried to comfort her.

Albert de Wichehalse, with a sudden start of intuition, saw what her
father had been unable to descry or even dream. The worthy baron's time
of life for fervid thoughts was over; for him despairing love was but
a poet's fiction, or a joke against