re lurked the woodcock, and arcades of zigzag oak, Frida
kept her bridal robe from spot, or rent, or blemish. Passing all these
little pleadings of the life she had always loved, at last she turned
the craggy corner into the ledge of the windy cliff.

Now below her there was nothing but repose from shallow thought; rest
from all the little troubles she had made so much of; deep, eternal
satisfaction in the arms of something vast. But all the same, she did
not feel quite ready for the great jump yet.

The tide was in, and she must wait at least until it began to turn,
otherwise her white satin velvet would have all its pile set wrong, if
ever anybody found her. There could be no worse luck than that for any
bride on her wedding-day; therefore up the rock-walk Frida kept very
close to the landward side.

All this way she thought of pretty little things said to her in the
early days of love. Many things that made her smile because they had
gone so otherwise, and one or two that would have fetched her tears, if
she had any. Filled with vain remembrance thus, and counting up the
many presents sent to her for this occasion, but remaining safe at home,
Frida came to the little coving bower just inside the Point, where she
could go no further. Here she had received the pledges, and the plight,
and honour; and here her light head led her on to look for something
faithful.

"When the tide turns I shall know it. If he does not come by that time,
there will be no more to do. It will be too late for weddings, for the
tide turns at twelve o'clock. How calm and peaceful is the sea! How
happy are the sea gulls, and how true to one another!"

She stood where, if she had cared for life, it would have been certain
death to stand, so giddy was the height, and the rock beneath her
feet so slippery. The craggy headland, Duty Point, well known to every
navigator of that rock-bound coast, commands the Channel for many a
league, facing eastward the Castle Rock and Countisbury Foreland, and
westward High-veer Point, across the secluded cove of Leymouth. With
one sheer fall of a hundred fathoms the stern cliff meets the baffled
sea--or met it then, but now the level of the tide is lowering. Air and
sea were still and quiet; the murmur of the multitudinous wavelets could
not climb the cliff; but loops and curves of snowy braiding on the dark
gray water showed the set of tide and shift of current in and out the
buried rocks.

Standing in the