uliar to Newport,
which gives to the sea and landscape the effect of those French pictures
glassed in tinted crystal. There were but few passengers on the street.
I wondered if any of them held his fate in his hand as I did mine that
day. Before I reached the cliffs the afternoon was passing away rapidly;
the heated pavements under my feet growing cooler, and barred with long
gray shadows; a sea-breeze blowing tattered sand-colored clouds inland;
the bell of the steamer rang out sharply down at the quiet little wharf.
In half an hour she would sail. M. Vaux was on board, awaiting me. I had
but little time to spare.

I turned and crept slowly along the road to where the grassy street
opened on the cliffs, and sat down on the brown rocks. I could see my
husband on the sands with Robert, pacing to and fro; the scent of their
cigars almost reached me where I sat. I must see him once more. The bell
of the boat rang again; but I sat still, breaking off bits of the salt
crust from the rock, hardly looking up to see if her steam was up. I was
going. I knew she would not sail until I was on board. And I must see
him again; he would call me Hetty, maybe: that would be something to
remember. It was very quiet. The bare, ghastly cliffs formed a sort of
crescent, on which I sat; far below, the sea rolled in, over the white
sand, in heavy ashen sweeps: in one horn of the crescent the quaint old
town nestled, its smoky breath sleepily giving good-night to the clear
pink air; in the other stood the sullen fort, the flag flapping sharply
against the sky. The picture cut itself vividly on my brain. The two
black figures came slowly towards me, across the sands, seeing me at
last. I would not tell him I was going: I could write from New York: I
thought, my courage giving way. What a hard, just face Robert Manning
had! What money I made should go to the support of my child: Robert
should not think me derelict in every duty. Then I tried to get up to
meet them, but leaned back more heavily on the rocks, twisting my
fingers in a tuft of salt hay that grew there.

I heard Robert say something about "jaded" and "overworked," as he
looked at me, throwing away his cigar; his father answered in a whisper,
which made the young man's face soften, and when they came near, he
called me "mother," for the first time. Into the face of the man beside
him I did not look: I thought I never could look again. There was a
small rip in the sleeve of his great