e him to the beach, and took
him out to dinner, where he talked oracularly of finance. On Sunday night
he departed, without visible regrets, for New York.

One Monday morning a storm was raging over Newport. Seized by a sudden
whim, she rang her bell, breakfasted at an unusual hour, and nine o'clock
found her, with her skirts flying, on the road above the cliffs that
leads to the Fort. The wind had increased to a gale, and as she stood on
the rocks the harbour below her was full of tossing white yachts
straining at their anchors. Serene in the midst of all this hubbub lay a
great grey battleship.

Presently, however, her thoughts were distracted by the sight of
something moving rapidly across her line of vision. A sloop yacht, with a
ridiculously shortened sail, was coming in from the Narrows, scudding
before the wind like a frightened bird. She watched its approach in a
sort of fascination, for of late she had been upon the water enough to
realize that the feat of which she was witness was not without its
difficulties. As the sloop drew nearer she made out a bare-headed figure
bent tensely at the wheel, and four others clinging to the yellow deck.
In a flash the boat had rounded to, the mainsail fell, and a veil of
spray hid the actors of her drama. When it cleared the yacht was tugging
like a wild thing at its anchor.

That night was Mrs. Grenfell's ball, and many times in later years has
the scene come back to Honora. It was not a large ball, by no means on
the scale of Mr. Chamberlin's, for instance. The great room reminded one
of the gallery of a royal French chateau, with its dished ceiling, in the
oval of which the colours of a pastoral fresco glowed in the ruby lights
of the heavy chandeliers; its grey panelling, hidden here and there by
tapestries, and its series of deep, arched windows that gave glimpses of
a lantern-hung terrace. Out there, beyond a marble balustrade, the lights
of fishing schooners tossed on a blue-black ocean. The same ocean on
which she had looked that morning, and which she heard now, in the
intervals of talk and laughter, crashing against the cliffs,--although
the wind had gone down. Like a woman stirred to the depths of her being,
its bosom was heaving still at the memory of the passion of the morning.

This night after the storm was capriciously mild, the velvet gown of
heaven sewn with stars. The music had ceased, and supper was being served
at little tables on the terrace. The con