in." I said, "and change, every one of your wet clothes. I will see
you again, once again, when we can talk with one another calmly. God
bless and take care of you, my darling!"

She smiled faintly, and laid her hand in mine.

"You forgive me?" she said.

"Forgive you!" I repeated, kissing the small brown hand lingeringly; "I
have nothing to forgive."

She went on across the little fold and into the house, without looking
back toward me. I could see her pass through the kitchen into her own
room, where I had watched her through the struggle between life and
death, which had first made her dear to me. Then I made my way, blind
and deaf, to the edge of the cliff, seeing nothing, hearing-nothing. I
flung myself down on the turf with my face to the ground, to hide my
eyes from the staring light of the summer sun.

Already it seemed a long time since I had known that Olivia was married.
The knowledge had lost its freshness and novelty, and the sting of it
had become a rooted sorrow. There was no mystery about her now. I almost
laughed, with a resentful bitterness, at the poor guesses I had made.
This was the solution, and it placed her forever out of my reach. As
with Tardif, so she could be nothing for me now, but as the blue sky,
and the white clouds, and the stars shining in the night. My poor
Olivia! whom I loved a hundredfold more than I had done even this
morning. This morning I had been full of my own triumph and gladness.
Now I had nothing in my heart but a vast pity and reverential tenderness
for her.

Married? That was what she had said. It shut out all hope for the
future. She must have been a mere child four years ago; she looked very
young and girlish still. And her husband treated her ill--my Olivia, for
whom I had given up all I had to give. She said the law would compel her
to return to him, and I could do nothing. I could not interfere even to
save her from a life which was worse to her than death.

My heart was caught in a vice, and there was no escape from the torture
of its relentless grip. Whichever way I looked there was sorrow and
despair. I wished, with a faint-heartedness I had never felt before,
that Olivia and I had indeed perished together down in the caves where
the tide was now sweeping below me.

"Martin!" said a clear, low, tender tone in my ear, which could never be
deaf to that voice. I looked up at Olivia without moving. My head was at
her feet, and I laid my hand upon the hem of h