ending,--while through the tunnels scooped out of the tall castellated
rocks which guarded either side of the little port, or "weir," the great
billows dashed with a thunderous roar of melody, oftentimes throwing
aloft fountains of spray well-nigh a hundred feet in height--spray which
the wild wind caught and blew in pellets of salty foam far up the little
village street. Helmsley was now kept a prisoner indoors,--he had not
sufficient strength to buffet with a gale, or to stand any unusually
sharp nip of cold,--so he remained very comfortably by the side of the
fire, making baskets, which he was now able to turn out quickly with
quite an admirable finish, owing to the zeal and earnestness with which
he set himself to the work. Mary's business in the winter months was
entirely confined to the lace-mending--she had no fine laundry work to
do, and her time was passed in such household duties as kept her little
cottage sweet and clean, in attentive guardianship and care of her
"father's friend"--and in the delicate weaving of threads whereby the
fine fabric which had once perchance been damaged and spoilt by
flaunting pride, was made whole and beautiful again by simple patience.
Helmsley was never tired of watching her. Whether she knelt down with a
pail of suds, and scrubbed her cottage doorstep--or whether she sat
quietly opposite to him, with the small "Charlie" snuggled on a rug
between them, while she mended her lace, his eyes always rested upon her
with deepening interest and tenderness. And he grew daily more conscious
of a great peace and happiness--peace and happiness such as he had
never known since his boyhood's days. He, who had found the ways of
modern society dull to the last point of excruciating boredom, was not
aware of any monotony in the daily round of the hours, which, laden with
simple duties and pleasures, came and went softly and slowly like angel
messengers stepping gently from one heaven to another. The world--or
that which is called the world,--had receded from him altogether. Here,
where he had found a shelter, there was no talk of finance--the claims
of the perpetual "bridge" party had vanished like the misty confusion of
a bad dream from the brain--the unutterably vulgar intrigues common to
the so-called "better" class of twentieth century humanity could not
intrude any claim on his attention or his time--the perpetual lending of
money to perpetually dishonest borrowers was, for the present, a
fi