“Mr. Cassilis!” she cried; “Mr. Cassilis!”

I appeared at once, and leaped down upon the beach.  A remarkable air of relief overspread her countenance as soon as she saw me.

“Oh!” she cried, with a hoarse sound, like one whose bosom had been lightened of a weight.  And then, “Thank God you are still safe!” she added; “I knew, if you were, you would be here.” (Was not this strange?  So swiftly and wisely does Nature prepare our hearts for these great lifelong intimacies, that both my wife and I had been given a presentiment on this the second day of our acquaintance.  I had even then hoped that she would seek me; she had felt sure that she would find me.) “Do not,” she went on swiftly, “do not stay in this place.  Promise me that you sleep no longer in that wood.  You do not know how I suffer; all last night I could not sleep for thinking of your peril.”

“Peril!” I repeated.  “Peril from whom?  From Northmour?”

“Not so,” she said.  “Did you think I would tell him after what you said?”

“Not from Northmour?” I repeated.  “Then how?  From whom?  I see none to be afraid of.”

“You must not ask me,” was her reply, “for I am not free to tell you.  Only believe me, and go hence—­believe me, and go away quickly, quickly, for your life!”

An appeal to his alarm is never a good plan to rid oneself of a spirited young man.  My obstinacy was but increased by what she said, and I made it a point of honor to remain.  And her solicitude for my safety still more confirmed me in the resolve.

“You must not think me inquisitive, madame,” I replied, “but, if Graden is so dangerous a place, you yourself perhaps remain here at some risk.”

She only looked at me reproachfully.

“You and your father—­” I resumed; but she interrupted me almost with a gasp.

“My father!  How do you know that?” she cried.

“I saw you together when you landed,” was my answer; and I do not know why, but it seemed satisfactory to both of us, as indeed it was truth.  “But,” I continued, “you need have no fear from me.  I see you have some reason to be secret, and, you may believe me, your secret is as safe with me as if I were in Graden Floe.  I have scarce spoken to anyone for years; my horse is my only companion, and even he, poor beast, is not beside me.  You see, then, you may count on me for silence.  So tell me the truth, my dear young lady, are you not in danger?”

“Mr. Northmour says you are an honorable man,” she returned, “and I believe it when I see you.  I will tell you so much; you are right:  we are in dreadful, dreadful danger, and you share it by remaining where you are.”

“Ah!” said I; “you have heard of me from Northmour?  And he gives me a good character?”

“I asked him about you last night,” was her reply.  “I pretended,” she hesitated, “I pretended to have met you long ago, and spoken to you of him.  It was not true; but I could not help myself without betraying you, and you had put me in a difficulty.  He praised you highly.”