d me. I'll do anything I can.'

'Thank you. And I shall see you again soon?'

'Certainly. Quite soon.'

When he was gone she looked reflectively at the spot where he had
been standing, and said: 'Best hold my tongue. It will work of itself,
without my telling.'

Jocelyn went from the house, but as the white road passed under his
feet he felt in no mood to get back to his lodgings in the town on the
mainland. He lingered about upon the rugged ground for a long while,
thinking of the extraordinary reproduction of the original girl in this
new form he had seen, and of himself as of a foolish dreamer in being so
suddenly fascinated by the renewed image in a personality not one-third
of his age. As a physical fact, no doubt, the preservation of the
likeness was no uncommon thing here, but it helped the dream.

Passing round the walls of the new castle he deviated from his homeward
track by turning down the familiar little lane which led to the ruined
castle of the Red King. It took him past the cottage in which the new
Avice was born, from whose precincts he had heard her first infantine
cry. Pausing he saw near the west behind him the new moon growing
distinct upon the glow.

He was subject to gigantic fantasies still. In spite of himself,
the sight of the new moon, as representing one who, by her so-called
inconstancy, acted up to his own idea of a migratory Well-Beloved, made
him feel as if his wraith in a changed sex had suddenly looked over the
horizon at him. In a crowd secretly, or in solitude boldly, he had
often bowed the knee three times to this sisterly divinity on her first
appearance monthly, and directed a kiss towards her shining shape. The
curse of his qualities (if it were not a blessing) was far from having
spent itself yet.

In the other direction the castle ruins rose square and dusky against
the sea. He went on towards these, around which he had played as a boy,
and stood by the walls at the edge of the cliff pondering. There was no
wind and but little tide, and he thought he could hear from years ago a
voice that he knew. It certainly was a voice, but it came from the rocks
beneath the castle ruin.

'Mrs. Atway!'

A silence followed, and nobody came. The voice spoke again; 'John
Stoney!'

Neither was this summons attended to. The cry continued, with more
entreaty: 'William Scribben!'

The voice was that of a Pierston--there could be no doubt of it--young
Avice's, surely? Something or othe