h exposure if you refuse him when he proposes, _don't_
you, dear?"

"Absolutely," replied Leonie for the second time.

There followed long minutes of silence which the swirl of the waters
alone dared to break, and then the girl spoke.

"My life," she said very softly to herself; "my lovely, beautiful free
life done. The wind, and the birds, and the sea--Auntie--oh,
Auntie--_Auntie_!"

And she turned and flung herself against the wall with her face crushed
into her upstretched arms. "Think of it," she whispered hoarsely,
"think of it, my youth, my spirit, my body given into that old man's
keeping. I who have kept my thoughts, my lips, my eyes for my mate
that was to be; I who have longed for his love, for the hours and the
days, and the months, and the years, even unto death, with him. How
could----"

There was a click of the gate, and she flung round from the wall,
dry-eyed, dry-lipped, desperate, as her aunt hurriedly rose.

"It's him--Sir Walter, Leonie--are you going to accept him?"

"Of course," came the steady reply, and Leonie looked the elder woman
straight in the eyes, which darted this, that, and every way. "Will
you go upstairs, please."

* * * * * * * *

Just before dawn Leonie slid in through the window, and the water,
trickling from the bathing dress which clung to the wonderful figure,
formed little pools on the faded carpet.

"Nothing will ever make me clean," she whispered,
"nothing--nothing--nothing. There is no ocean big or wide or deep
enough for that, oh! God--my God!"

For five long minutes she stood absolutely still, looking straight and
unseeingly at the mantelpiece.

Then as a rooster somewhere shrilly heralded the coming day she awoke
to her surroundings and moved.

Like a beaten dog she crept to her bedroom, and stood staring at the
reflection of her haggard face in the mirror. A bird suddenly burst
into a song of welcome to the dawn which was dyeing the sky rose pink,
and she crossed to the window-seat, dropped to her knees, and buried
her lovely head in her outstretched arms, amid the ruins of her
beautiful Castle of Dreams.

CHAPTER XVI

"For Fate has wove the thread of life with pain!"--_Pope_.

When _empty_ Rockham is a haven of delight, whether the little
connecting coves be awash with the tide, or the limpets, in an unglued
state, are airing themselves awaiting the return of the water.

You can wander at will, if y