“Yes, I promise,” answered Beatrice in the same inaudible whisper.  “Sleep, dear, sleep; I will join you very soon.”

And the child looked up, shivered, smiled—­and slept.

Beatrice gave it back to the weeping parents and went her way.  “What a splendid creature,” said the doctor to himself as he looked after her.  “She has eyes like Fate, and the face of Motherhood Incarnate.  A great woman, if ever I saw one, but different from other women.”

Meanwhile Beatrice made her way to old Edward’s boat-shed.  As she expected, there was nobody there, and nobody on the beach.  Old Edward and his son were at tea, with the rest of Bryngelly.  They would come back after dark and lock up the boat-house.

She looked at the sea.  There were no waves, but the breeze freshened every minute, and there was a long slow swell upon the water.  The rollers would be running beyond the shelter of Rumball Point, five miles away.

The tide was high; it mounted to within ten yards of the end of the boat-house.  She opened the door, and dragged out her canoe, closing the door again after her.  The craft was light, and she was strong for a woman.  Close to the boat-house one of the timber breakwaters, which are common at sea-side places, ran down into the water.  She dragged the canoe to its side, and then pushed it down the beach till its bow was afloat.  Next, mounting on the breakwater, she caught hold of the little chain in the bow, and walking along the timber baulks, pulled with all her force till the canoe was quite afloat.  On she went, dragging it after her, till the waves washing over the breakwater wetted her shoes.

Then she brought the canoe quite close, and, watching her opportunity, stepped into it, nearly falling into the water as she did so.  But she recovered her balance, and sat down.  In another minute she was paddling out to sea with all her strength.

For twenty minutes or more she paddled unceasingly.  Then she rested awhile, only keeping the canoe head on to the sea, which, without being rough, was running more and more freshly.  There, some miles away, was the dark mass of Rumball Point.  She must be off it before the night closed in.  There would be sea enough there; no such craft as hers could live in it for five minutes, and the tide was on the turn.  Anything sinking in those waters would be carried far away, and never come back to the shore of Wales.

She turned her head and looked at Bryngelly, and the long familiar stretch of cliff.  How fair it seemed, bathed in the quiet lights of summer afternoon.  Oh! was there any afternoon where the child had gone, and where she was following fast?—­or was it all night, black, eternal night, unbroken by the dram of dear remembered things?

There were the Dog Rocks, where she had stood on that misty autumn day, and seen the vision of her coffined mother’s face.  Surely it was a presage of her fate.  There beyond was the Bell Rock, where in that same hour Geoffrey and she had met, and behind it was the Amphitheatre, where they had told their love.  Hark! what was that sound pealing faintly at intervals across the deep?  It was the great ship’s bell that, stirred from time to time by the wash of the high tide, solemnly tolled her passing soul.