of duty and resistance.

He saw nothing of her when he reached the Cove. He could think of no
excuse for calling at the Barrett cottage, so he rode slowly past the
hamlet and along the shore.

The sun, red as a smouldering ember, was half buried in the silken
violet rim of the sea; the west was a vast lake of saffron and rose
and ethereal green, through which floated the curved shallop of a thin
new moon, slowly deepening from lustreless white, through gleaming
silver, into burnished gold, and attended by one solitary, pearl-white
star. The vast concave of sky above was of violet, infinite and
flawless. Far out dusky amethystine islets clustered like gems on the
shining breast of the bay. The little pools of water along the low
shores glowed like mirrors of polished jacinth. The small,
pine-fringed headlands ran out into the water, cutting its lustrous
blue expanse like purple wedges.

As Esterbrook turned one of them he saw Magdalen standing out on the
point of the next, a short distance away. Her back was towards him,
and her splendid figure was outlined darkly against the vivid sky.

Esterbrook sprang from his horse and left the animal standing by
itself while he walked swiftly out to her. His heart throbbed
suffocatingly. He was conscious of no direct purpose save merely to
see her.

She turned when he reached her with a slight start of surprise. His
footsteps had made no sound on the tide-rippled sand.

For a few moments they faced each other so, eyes burning into eyes
with mute soul-probing and questioning. The sun had disappeared,
leaving a stain of fiery red to mark his grave; the weird, radiant
light was startlingly vivid and clear. Little crisp puffs and flakes
of foam scurried over the point like elfin things. The fresh wind,
blowing up the bay, tossed the lustrous rings of hair about Magdalen's
pale face; all the routed shadows of the hour had found refuge in her
eyes.

Not a trace of colour appeared in her face under Esterbrook Elliott's
burning gaze. But when he said "Magdalen!" a single, hot scorch of
crimson flamed up into her cheeks protestingly. She lifted her hand
with a splendid gesture, but no word passed her lips.

"Magdalen, have you nothing to say to me?" he asked, coming closer to
her with an imploring passion in his face never seen by Marian
Lesley's eyes. He reached out his hand, but she stepped back from his
touch.

"What should I have to say to you?"

"Say that you are glad to