Her dislike of her father was instinctive, almost impersonal, being based, indeed, on his treatment of her mother rather than on any resentment of his neglect of herself.  But Robert Turold had never been able to intimidate his daughter or tame her fearless spirit.  She had inherited too much of his own nature for that.

At that moment she was sitting motionless, immersed in thought, her chin on her hand, looking across the water to the horizon, where the Scilly Islands shimmered and disappeared in a grey, melting mist.  She did not hear the sound of Charles Turold’s footsteps, descending the cliff path in search of her.

The young man stood still for a moment admiring her exquisite features in their soft contour and delicate colouring.  He pictured her to himself as a white wildflower in a grey wilderness.  He could not see himself as an exotic growth in that rugged setting—­a rather dandified young man in a well-cut suit, with an expression at once restless and bored on his good-looking face.

He scrambled down the last few slippery yards of the path and had almost reached her side before she saw him.

“I have been sent for you,” he explained.  “I knew I should find you here.”

She got up immediately from the rock where she had been sitting, and they stood for a moment in silence.  She thought by his look that he had something to say to her, but as he did not speak she commenced the ascent of the stiff cliff path.  He started after her, but the climb took all his attention, and she was soon far ahead.  When he reached the top she was standing near the edge looking around her.

“This is my last look,” she said as he reached her side.  Her hand indicated the line of savage cliffs, the tossing sea, the screaming birds, the moors beyond the rocks.

“Perhaps you will come back here again some day,” he replied.

She made no answer.  He drew closer, so close that she shrank back and turned away.

“I must go now,” she hurriedly said.

“Stay, Sisily,” he said.  “I want to speak to you.  It may be the final opportunity—­the last time we shall be alone together here.”

She hesitated, walking with slower steps and then stopping.  As he did not speak she broke the silence in a low tone—­

“What do you wish to say to me?”

“Are you sorry you are leaving Cornwall?” he hesitatingly began.

She made a slight indifferent gesture.  “Yes, but it does not matter.  Mother is dead, and my father does not care for me.”  She flushed a deep red and hastily added, “No one will miss me.  I am so alone.”

“You are not alone!” he impetuously exclaimed—­“I love you, Sisily—­that is what I wished to say.  I came here to tell you.”

He caught a swift fleeting glance from her dark eyes, immediately veiled.

“Do you really mean what you say?” she replied, a little unsteadily.

“Yes, Sisily.  I have loved you ever since I first met you,” he replied.  “And, since then, I have loved you more and more.”