neglected for the firstborn, I had enjoyed
through this neglect an absolute freedom with regard to associating
with fisher-boys and all the shoeless, hatless 'sea-pups' of the
sands, and now, when the time had come to civilise me, my mother had
found that it was too late. I was bohemian to the core. My childish
intercourse with Winifred had been one of absolute equality, and I
could not now divest myself of this relation. These were my thoughts
as I listened to my mother's words.

My great fear now, however, was lest I should say something to
compromise myself, and so make matter worse. Before another word upon
the subject should pass between my mother and me I must see
Winifred--and then I had something to say to her which no power on
earth should prevent me from saying. So I merely told my mother that
there was much truth in what she had said, and proceeded to ask
particulars about my father's recent illness. After giving me these
particulars she left the room, perplexed, I thought, as to what had
been the result of her mission.

IV

I remained alone for some time. Then I told the servants that I was
going to walk along the cliffs to Dullingham Church, where there was
an evening service, and left the house. I hastened towards the
cliffs, and descended to the sands, in the hope that Winifred might
be roaming about there, but I walked all the way to Dullingham
without getting a glimpse of her. The church service did not interest
me that evening. I heard nothing and saw nothing. When the service
was over I returned along the sands, sauntering and lingering in the
hope that, late as it was now growing, the balmy evening might have
enticed her out.

The evening grew to night, and still I lingered. The moon was nearly
at the full, and exceedingly bright. The tide was down. The scene was
magical; I could not leave it. I said to myself, 'I will go and stand
on the very spot where Winifred stood when she lisped "certumly" to
the proposal of her little lover.'

It was not, after all, till this evening that I really knew how
entirely she was a portion of my life.

I went and stood by the black boulder where I had received the little
child's prompt reply. There was not a grain left, I knew, of that
same sand which had been hallowed by the little feet of Winifred, but
it served my mood just as well as though every grain had felt the
beloved pressure. For that the very sands had loved the child, I half
believed.

I sa