out black and solid against the flood of golden light behind it.  She sat there very still, enjoying the air, the scene, the sweet salt breath of the sea, thinking intently of Rachel Trant’s experience, of her fatal weakness, of the unpitying severity of that rule of law under which we social atoms are constrained to live; of the evident fact that were we but wise and good we might always be the beneficent arbiters of our own fate; that there are few pleasures which have not their price; and after all, though she, Katherine, had paid high for hers, it had not cost too much, considering she had been groping in the dimness of imperfect knowledge.  Oh, hew she wished she had never attempted to act providence to her mother and herself, but trusted to Errington’s sense of generosity and justice!  Of course it would have been humiliating to beg from a stranger, yet before that stranger she had been compelled to lower herself to the dust, and—­

The unwonted sound of approaching feet startled her.  She turned, to see De Burgh within speaking distance.  “I am like Robinson Crusoe in my solitude here,” she said, smiling.  “I turn pale at the sound of an unexpected step, as he did at the print of Friday’s foot.”

“And to continue the smile,” he returned, leaning against a rock near her, “the footprint or step, as in Crusoe’s case, only announces the advent of a devoted slave.”  He spoke lightly, and Katherine scarce noticed what seemed to her an idle compliment.

“I fancied you had gone to town,” she said.

“No; I am not going to town; I don’t know or care where I am going.  Some kind friends might say I am on my way to the dogs.”

“I hope not,” said Katherine, gravely.  “I imagine, Mr. De Burgh, that if you had some object of ambition—­”

“I should become an Admirable Crichton?  I don’t think so.  There are such dreary pauses in the current of all careers!”

“Of course.  You would not live in a tornado!”

“I am not so sure”—­laughing.  “At all events I shall never be satisfied with still life like our friend Errington.”

“Do you know anything of him?  Mrs. Ormonde never mentions his name.”

“Of course not; when a fellow can’t keep pace with his peers, away with him, crucify him.”

“As long as a few special friends are true——­”

“If they are,” interrupted De Burgh; and Katherine did not resume, hoping he would continue the theme, which he did, saying:  “He has left his big house, gone into chambers somewhere, and has I believe, taken up literature, politics, and social subjects.  So Lady Mary Vincent says.  I fancy he is a clever fellow in a cast-iron style.”

“What a change for him!”

“I believe there was something coming to him out of the wreck, and I think he is a sort of man who will float.  I never liked him myself, chiefly, I fancy, because I know he doesn’t like me.  Indeed, I don’t care for people in general.”  There was a pause, during which Katherine glanced at her companion, and was struck by his sombre expression, the stern compression of his lips.