The Vicar would have been shocked beyond words by the life of complete indulgence led by his small daughter.  She breakfasted in bed every day, served by Avery who was firm as to the amount of nourishment taken but comfortably lax on all other points.  When the meal was over, Avery generally went marketing while Jeanie dressed, and they then went to the shore.  If there were no marketing to be done, Avery would go down to the beach alone and wait for her there.  There was a sheltered corner that they both loved where, protected by towering rocks, they spent many a happy hour.  It was just out of reach of the sea, exposed to the sun and sheltered from the wind—­an ideal spot; and here they brought letters, books, or needlework, and were busy or idle according to their moods.

Jeanie was often idle.  She used to lie in the soft sand and dream, with her eyes on the far horizon; but of what she dreamed she said no word even to Avery.  But she was always happy.  Her smile was always ready, the lines of her mouth were always set in perfect content.  She seemed to have all she desired at all times.  They did not often stray from the shore, for she was easily tired; but they used to roam along it and search the crevices of the scattered rocks which held all manner of treasures.  They spent the time in complete accord.  It was too good to last, Avery told herself.  The way had become too easy.

It was on a morning about a week after their arrival that she went down at an early hour to their favourite haunt.  There had been rain in the night, and a brisk west wind was blowing; but she knew that in that sheltered spot they would be protected, and Jeanie was pledged to join her there as soon as she was ready.  The tide was coming in, and the sun shone amidst scudding white clouds.  It was a morning on which to be happy for no other reason than lightness of heart; and Avery, with her work-bag on her arm, sang softly to herself as she went.

As usual she met no one.  It was a secluded part of the shore.  The little town was out of sight on the other side of a rocky promontory, and the place was lonely to desolation.

But Avery did not feel the loneliness.  She had had a letter only that morning from Crowther, the friend of those far-off Australian days, and he expressed a hope of being able to pay her a flying visit at Stanbury Cliffs before settling down to work in grim earnest for the accomplishment of his life’s desire.  She would have welcomed Edmund Crowther at any time.  He was the sort of friend whose coming could never bring anything but delight.

She wondered as she walked along which day he would choose.  She was rather glad that he had not fixed a definite date.  It was good to feel that any day might bring him.

Nearing her destination she became aware of light feet running on the firm sand behind her.  She glanced over her shoulder, but the sun shone full in her eyes, and she only managed to discern vaguely a man’s figure drawing near.  He could not be pursuing her, she decided, and resumed her walk and her thoughts of Crowther—­the friend who had stood by her at a time when she had been practically friendless.