will speak to him about the boat."

"To be sure. And I do wish he would hurry all and show himself. New
boats be building, but the best may get sold--a day might make a
difference."

"And now, mother, you must try and lift the care from father's heart.
Let him know, some way, that money troubles are over and that he may
carry his head up. You can do it--a little word--a little look from
you--he will understand."

"Aw, then, Denas, a smile is enough. I can lift my eyelids, and he'll
see the light under them and catch it in his heart. John isn't a
woman. Thank God, he can be happy and ask no questions--trusting all.
Your father be a good man to trust and hope."

Then the day, that had seemed to stretch itself out so long and
wearily, was all too short for Joan and Denas. They talked about the
money freely and happily, and Denas could now tell her mother all the
circumstances of her visit to Elizabeth. They were full of interest to
the simple woman. She enjoyed hearing about the dress Elizabeth wore;
about her house, her anger, her disappointment, and hard reluctance to
pay money for the treasures she had begun to regard as her own.

So the morning passed quickly away, and in the afternoon Denas went
into the village to look after her school-room. It was such a lovely
spring day. The sky was so blue, the sea was so blue, the earth was so
green and sweet, and the air so fresh and clear that Denas could not
but be glad that she was alive to be cheered by them. Not for a very
long time had she felt so calmly happy, so hopeful of the future, so
resigned to the past.

After her business in the village was over she walked toward the
cliff. She had some idea that it would be pleasant to go up to the
church town, but just where the trees and underwood came near to the
shingle a little bird singing on a May-thorn beguiled her to listen.
Then the songster went on and on, as if it called her, and Denas
followed its music; until, by and by, she came to where the shingle
was but a narrow strip, and the verdure retreated, and the rocks grew
larger and higher; and, anon, she was at the promontory between St.
Penfer and St. Clair.

It would now be impossible to go up the cliff and back again before
tea-time, and she sat down to rest a little before returning home. She
sat longer than she intended, for the dreamy, monotonous murmur of the
waves and the stillness and solitude predisposed her to that kind of
drifting thought which