“How do you mean to get back to the Castle to-night, Mr. Davies?  You cannot row back in this wind, and the seas will be breaking over the causeway.”

“Oh, I shall manage.  I am wet already.  An extra ducking won’t hurt me, and I have had a chain put up to prevent anybody from being washed away.  And now I must be going.  Good-night.”

“Good-night, Mr. Davies.”

He hesitated a moment and then added:  “Would you—­would you mind telling your sister—­of course I mean when she is stronger—­that I came to inquire after her?”

“I think that you can do that for yourself, Mr. Davies,” Elizabeth said almost roughly.  “I mean it will be more appreciated,” and she turned upon her heel.

Owen Davies ventured no further remarks.  He felt that Elizabeth’s manner was a little crushing, and he was afraid of her as well.  “I suppose that she does not think I am good enough to pay attention to her sister,” he thought to himself as he plunged into the night and rain.  “Well, she is quite right—­I am not fit to black her boots.  Oh, God, I thank Thee that Thou hast saved her life.  I thank Thee—­I thank Thee!” he went on, speaking aloud to the wild winds as he made his way along the cliff.  “If she had been dead, I think that I must have died too.  Oh, God, I thank Thee—­I thank Thee!”

The idea that Owen Davies, Esq., J.P., D.L., of Bryngelly Castle, absolute owner of that rising little watering-place, and of one of the largest and most prosperous slate quarries in Wales, worth in all somewhere between seven and ten thousand a year, was unfit to black her beautiful sister’s boots, was not an idea that had struck Elizabeth Granger.  Had it struck her, indeed, it would have moved her to laughter, for Elizabeth had a practical mind.

What did strike her, as she turned and watched the rich squire’s sturdy form vanish through the doorway into the dark beyond, was a certain sense of wonder.  Supposing she had never seen that shiver of returning life run up those white limbs, supposing that they had grown colder and colder, till at length it was evident that death was so firmly citadelled within the silent heart, that no human skill could beat his empire back?  What then?  Owen Davies loved her sister; this she knew and had known for years.  But would he not have got over it in time?  Would he not in time have been overpowered by the sense of his own utter loneliness and given his hand, if not his heart, to some other woman?  And could not she who held his hand learn to reach his heart?  And to whom would that hand have been given, the hand and all that went with it?  What woman would this shy Welsh hermit, without friends or relations, have ever been thrown in with except herself—­Elizabeth—­who loved him as much as she could love anybody, which, perhaps, was not very much; who, at any rate, desired sorely to be his wife.  Would not all this have come about if she had never seen that eyelid tremble, and that slight quiver run up her sister’s limbs?  It would—­she knew it would.