and awful sight as it always seems to me.  Will she get safe to port?  What is her cargo?  What her human freight?  What are they doing or thinking?  What language do they speak?  Are there women or children aboard?  Who knows?  Ah, gentle reader, what do you and I know of each other, and what do we know of even our nearest friends; to what port are they struggling through the mists which envelop them, and who will meet them on the shore?

An hour had not elapsed since Glenville had left Barton before the latter had reached the first promontory of rocks which shut in the little bay of Babbicombe, and on turning the corner found, as he had expected and appointed, the young woman who had been the subject of their angry conversation.  She rose from a rock on which she had been sitting, and came to meet him with a frank smile, saying, “Good afternoon, Mr. Henry.”  Somehow the slightly coarse intonation struck him as it had never done before, and the freedom of manner which a few hours ago would have delighted him now sent a chilling sensation to his heart.  “Good afternoon,” he replied, and, drawing his arm round her waist, he kissed her several times, and held her so firmly that at last she said, “Oh, sir, you’ll hurt me.  Let me go!” Then holding him away from her, and looking him full in the face, she said, “Oh, Mr. Henry, whatever can be the matter!” “Come and sit down, darling,” he said, “I want to say something to you.”  He led her to a seat upon the rocks, and they both sat down.  “Darling,” he said, “I am afraid I must go away at once and leave you for ever.”  “Oh, no, no, no! not that!” she cried, starting up.  In a moment her manner changed from fear to anger.  “I know what it is!” she exclaimed, “Hawkstone has been rude to you.  There now, I will never forgive him.  I will never be friends with him again—­never!”

“No, darling, it is nothing about Hawkstone at all.  I haven’t seen him.  But come here, you must be quiet and listen to what I have to say.”

She sat down again beside him.  Her lips quivered.  Her blue eyes were staring into the cliff in front of her, but she saw nothing, felt nothing, except that a dreadful moment had come which she had for some time dimly expected, but never distinctly foreseen.

“I hardly know how to tell you,” he began.  “You know I love you very dearly, and if I could—­if it was possible, I would ask you to marry me.  But I cannot.  It is impossible.  It would bring misery upon all, upon my father and mother, and upon you.  How can I make you understand?  My people are rich, all their friends are rich, and all very proud.”

The tears were streaming down her face, and she sat motionless.

“But I don’t want to know your friends,” she said, in a choking voice.

“I know, I know,” he said, “and I could be quite happy with you if they were all dead and out of the way, and if the world was different from what it is.  But I have thought it all out, and I am sure I ought to go away at once, and never come back again.”