Gyp went along till she could see no outer world for the grey-brown tree-stems streaked with gum-resin; and, throwing herself down on her face, dug her elbows deep into the pine dust.  Tears, so rare with her, forced their way up, and trickled slowly to the hands whereon her chin rested.  No good—­crying!  Crying only made her ill; crying was no relief.  She turned over on her back and lay motionless, the sunbeams warm on her cheeks.  Silent here, even at noon!  The sough of the calm sea could not reach so far; the flies were few; no bird sang.  The tall bare pine stems rose up all round like columns in a temple roofed with the dark boughs and sky.  Cloud-fleeces drifted slowly over the blue.  There should be peace—­ but in her heart there was none!

A dusky shape came padding through the trees a little way off, another—­two donkeys loose from somewhere, who stood licking each other’s necks and noses.  Those two humble beasts, so friendly, made her feel ashamed.  Why should she be sorry for herself, she who had everything in life she wanted—­except love—­the love she had thought she would never want?  Ah, but she wanted it now, wanted it at last with all her being!

With a shudder, she sprang up; the ants had got to her, and she had to pick them off her neck and dress.  She wandered back towards the beach.  If he had truly found someone to fill his thoughts, and drive her out, all the better for him; she would never, by word or sign, show him that she missed, and wanted him—­never!  She would sooner die!

She came out into the sunshine.  The tide was low; and the wet foreshore gleamed with opal tints; there were wandering tracks on the sea, as of great serpents winding their way beneath the surface; and away to the west the archwayed, tawny rock that cut off the line of coast was like a dream-shape.  All was dreamy.  And, suddenly her heart began beating to suffocation and the colour flooded up in her cheeks.  On the edge of the low cliff bank, by the side of the path, Summerhay was sitting!

He got up and came toward her.  Putting her hands up to her glowing face, she said: 

“Yes; it’s me.  Did you ever see such a gipsified object?  I thought you were still in Scotland.  How’s dear Ossy?” Then her self-possession failed, and she looked down.

“It’s no good, Gyp.  I must know.”

It seemed to Gyp that her heart had given up beating; she said quietly:  “Let’s sit down a minute”; and moved under the cliff bank where they could not be seen from the house.  There, drawing the coarse grass blades through her fingers, she said, with a shiver: 

“I didn’t try to make you, did I?  I never tried.”

“No; never.”

“It’s wrong.”

“Who cares?  No one could care who loves as I do.  Oh, Gyp, can’t you love me?  I know I’m nothing much.”  How quaint and boyish!  “But it’s eleven weeks to-day since we met in the train.  I don’t think I’ve had one minute’s let-up since.”