The spring came, and Clarice set to work as never in her industrious life before.  Day after day she gathered sea-weed, dried it, and carried it to town.  She went out with her mother in the fishing-boat, and the two women were equal in strength and courage to almost any two men of the Bay.  She filled the empty fish-barrels,—­and promised to double the usual number.  She dried wagon-loads of finny treasure, and she made good bargains with the traders.  No one was so active, no one bade fair to turn the summer to such profit as Clarice.  She had come back to flesh and blood.—­John came back from Patmos.

Her face grew brown with tan; it was not lovely as a fair ghost’s, any longer; it was ruddy,—­and her limbs grew strong.  Bondo Emmins marked these symptoms, and took courage.  People generally said, “She is well over her grief, and has set her heart on getting rich.  There is that much of her mother in her.”  Others considered that Emmins was in the secret, and at the bottom of her serenity and diligence.

Dame Briton and her spouse were not one whit wiser than their neighbors.  They could not see that any half-work was impossible with Clarice,—­that, if she had resolved, for their sake, to live as people must, who have bodies to respect and God-originated wants to supply, she must live by a ceaseless activity.  Because she had ascended far beyond tears, lamentation, helplessness, they thought she had forgotten.

Yes, they came to this conclusion, though now and then, not often, generally on some pleasant Sunday, when all her work was done, Clarice would go down to the Point and take her Sabbath rest there.  No danger of disturbance there!—­of all bleak and desert places known to the people of Diver’s Bay, that point was bleakest and most deserted.

The place was hers, then.  In this solitude she could follow her thoughts, and be led by them down to the ocean, or away to heavenly depths.  It was good for her to go there in quietness,—­to rest in recollection.  Strength comes ever to the strong.  This pure heart had nothing to fear of sorrow.  Sorrow can only give the best it has to such as she.  Grief may weaken the selfish and the weak; it may make children of the foolish and drivellers; by grief the inefficient may come to the fulness of their inefficiency;—­but out of the bitter cup the strong take strength, though it may be with shuddering.

One Sunday morning Clarice lingered longer about the house than usual, and Emmins, who had resolved, that, if she went that day to the Point, he would follow her, found her with her father and mother, talking merely for their pleasure,—­if the languid tones of her voice and the absent look of her eyes were to be trusted.

Emmins thought that this moment was favorable to him.  He was sure of Dame Briton and the old man, and he almost believed that he was sure of Clarice.  Finding her now with her father and mother at home on this bright Sunday morning, one glance at her face surprised him and, almost before he was aware, he had spoken what he had hitherto so patiently refrained from speaking.