“Virginia,” he said abruptly, “I’m thinking you have hurt the lad.”

“Oh,” I burst out, “that is all you think of—­the lad, the lad!  How about me?  Don’t you suppose it hurt me too?”

“No,” he made deliberate answer.  “I was not sure of that.  I thought maybe you liked having men at your feet.”

“Liked it?  Liked to wound Cuthbert—­Cuthbert?  Oh, if only it had not happened, if we could have gone on being friends!  It was all my fault for going with him into the cave.  It was after you had buried the skeleton, and I wanted to see poor Peter’s resting-place.  And we spoke of Helen, and it was all frightfully melancholy and tender, and all at once he—­he said it.  And I meant he never should!” In the soreness of my heart I began to weep.

“There, lassie, there, don’t cry!” he said gently.  “The boy didn’t speak of it, of course.  But I knew how it must be.  It has hit him hard, I am afraid.”

“I suppose,” I wept, “you would have had me marry him whether I wanted to or not, just to keep from hurting him.”

“No,” he answered quickly.  “I did not say that—­I did not say that I would have had you marry him.  No, lass, I did not say that.”

“Then why are you scolding me?” I asked in a choked whisper.

“Scolding you?  I was not.  It was only that—­that I love the lad—­and I wish you both so well—­I thought perhaps there was some mistake, and—­it would not matter about me, if I could see you both happy.”

“There is a mistake,” I said clearly.  “It is a great mistake, Dugald Shaw, that you should come to me and court me—­for some one else.”

There was silence for a while, the kind of silence when you hear your heartbeats.

When he spoke his voice was unsteady.

“But the boy has everything to offer you—­his ancient name, his splendid unstained youth, a heart that is all loyalty.  He is strong and brave and beautiful.  Virginia, why couldn’t you love him?”

“I could not love him,” I replied, very low, “because my love was not mine any more to give.  It belongs to—­some one else.  Is his name ancient?  I don’t know.  It is his, and he ennobles it.  Cuthbert has youth, but youth is only promise.  In the man I love I find fulfilment.  And he is loyal and brave and honest—­I am afraid he isn’t beautiful, but I love him the better for his scars—­”

After that I sat quite still, and I knew it depended on the next half minute whether I went all the days of my life crowned and glorious with happiness, or buried my shame and heartbreak under the waters of the cove.

And then Dugald Shaw took me in his arms.

By and by he said huskily: 

“Beloved, I had no right to ask you to share such a life as mine must be—­the life of a poor sailor.”

At this I raised my head from its nestling-place and laughed.

“Ask me?  Silly, I asked you!  Of course you could have refused me, but I depended on your not having the courage.”