He smiled--but 'twas half a sad frown; for at once he puckered his
forehead.

"You're scared!" I taunted.

He shook his head.

"Oh, do come, zur!"

"No, Davy," said he.

I sighed.

"For," he added, sighing, too, "I have something to tell you, which must
now be told."

Whatever it was--however much he wished it said and over with--he was in
no haste to begin. While, for a long time, I kicked at the rock, in
anxious expectation, he sat with his hands clasped over his knee,
staring deep into the drear mist at sea--beyond the breakers, past the
stretch of black and restless water, far, far into the gray spaces,
which held God knows what changing visions for him! I stole glances at
him--not many, for then I dared not, lest I cry; and I fancied that his
disconsolate musings must be of London, a great city, which, as he had
told me many times, lay infinitely far away in that direction.

"Well, Davy, old man," he said, at last, with a quick little laugh, "hit
or miss, here goes!"

"You been thinkin' o' London," I ventured, hoping, if might be, for a
moment longer to distract him.

"But not with longing," he answered, quickly. "I left no one to wish me
back. Not one heart to want me--not one to wait for me! And I do not
wish myself back. I was a dissipated fellow there, and when I turned my
back on that old life, when I set out to find a place where I might
atone for those old sins, 'twas without regret, and 'twas for good and
all. This," he said, rising, "is my land. This," he repeated, glancing
north and south over the dripping coast, the while stretching wide his
arms, "is now my land! I love it for the opportunity it gave me. I love
it for the new man it has made me. I have forgotten the city. I love
_this_ life! And I love you, Davy," he cried, clapping his arm around
me, "and I love----"

He stopped.

"I knows, zur," said I, in an awed whisper, "whom you love."

"Bessie," said he.

"Ay, Bessie."

There was now no turning away. My recent fears had been realized. I must
tell him what was in my heart.

"Mary Tot says, zur," I gasped, "that love leads t' hell."

He started from me.

"I would not have my sister," I continued, "go t' hell. For, zur," said
I, "she'd be wonderful lonesome there."

"To hell?" he asked, hoarsely.

"Oh, ay!" I groaned. "T' the flames o' hell!"

"'Tis not true!" he burst out, with a radiant smile. "I know it!
Love--my love for her--has led me nearer heaven than ever I