Crispin Galliard."

She had listened with bent head; indeed, so deeply rapt by her
discovery, that she had but heard the half of what he said. Now, of a
sudden, she looked up, and meeting his glance:

"Is--is it a woman's fault that you are as you are?"

"No, it is not. But how does that concern the case of Kenneth?"

"It does not. I was but curious. I was not thinking of Kenneth."

He stared at her, dumfounded. Had he been talking of Kenneth to her with
such eloquence and such fervour, that she should calmly tell him as he
paused that it was not of Kenneth she had been thinking?

"You will think of him, Cynthia?" he begged. "You will bethink you too
of what I have said, and by being kinder and more indulgent with this
youth you shall make him grow into a man you may take pride in. Deal
fairly with him, child, and if anon you find you cannot truly love him,
then tell him so. But tell him kindly and frankly, instead of using him
as you are doing."

She was silent a moment, and in their poignancy her feelings went very
near to anger. Presently:

"I would, Sir Crispin, you could hear him talk of you," said she.

"He talks ill, not a doubt of it, and like enough he has good cause."

"Yet you saved his life."

The words awoke Crispin, the philosopher of love, to realities. He
recalled the circumstances of his saving Kenneth, and the price the boy
was to pay for that service; and it suddenly came to him that it was
wasted breath to plead Kenneth's cause with Cynthia, when by his own
future actions he was, himself, more than likely to destroy the boy's
every hope of wedding her. The irony of his attitude smote him hard,
and he rose abruptly. The sun hung now a round, red globe upon the very
brink of the sea.

"Hereafter he may have little cause to thank me," muttered he. "Come,
Mistress Cynthia, it grows late."

She rose in mechanical obedience, and together they retraced their steps
in silence, save for the stray word exchanged at intervals touching
matters of no moment.

But he had not advocated Kenneth's cause in vain, for all that he little
recked what his real argument had been, what influences he had evoked
to urge her to make her peace with the lad. A melancholy listlessness of
mind possessed her now. Crispin did not see, never would see, what was
in her heart, and it might not be hers to show him. The life that might
have signified was not to be lived, and since that was so it seemed to
matter little w