Bilson taking herself off to visit
friends, too?

From which Damaris gathered that, in the opinion of the servants' hall,
Theresa's offence was rank, it stank to heaven. She therefore, being
covetous of continued contentment, turned the conversation to less
controversial subjects; and, after passing notice of the fair weather,
the brightness of the geraniums and kindred trivialities, successfully
incited Mary to talk of Brockhurst, Sir Richard Calmady's famous place in
the north of the county, where--prior to his retirement to his native
town of Marychurch, upon a generous pension--her father, Lomas Fisher,
had for many years occupied the post of second gardener. Here was
material for story-telling to the child Damaris' heart's content! For
Brockhurst is rich in strange records of wealth, calamity, heroism, and
sport, the inherent romance of which Mary's artless narrative was
calculated to enhance rather than dissipate.

So young mistress listened and maid recounted, until, the former
fortified by cakes and tea, the two sauntered, side by side--a tall
stalwart black figure, white capped and aproned and an equally tall
but slender pale pink one--down across the lawn to the battery where
the small obsolete cannon so boldly defied danger of piracy or
invasion by sea.

The sun, a crimson disc, enormous in the earth-mist, sank slowly, south
of west, behind the dark mass of Stone Horse Head. The upper branches of
the line of Scotch firs in the warren and, beyond them, the upper windows
of the cottages and Inn caught the fiery light. Presently a little wind,
thin, perceptibly chill, drew up the river with the turning of the tide.
It fluttered Mary Fisher's long white muslin apron strings and lifted her
cap, so that she raised her hand to keep it in place upon her smooth
black hair. The romance of Brockhurst failed upon her tongue. She grew
sharply practical.

"The dew's beginning to rise, Miss Damaris," she said, "and you've only
got your house shoes on. You ought to go indoors at once."

But--"Listen," Damaris replied, and lingered.

The whistling of a tune, shrill, but true and sweet, and a rattle of
loose shingle, while a young man climbed the seaward slope of the Bar.
The whistling ceased as he stopped, on the crest of the ridge, and stood,
bare-headed, contemplating the sunset. For a few seconds the fiery light
stained his hands, his throat, his hair, his handsome bearded face; then
swiftly faded, leaving him like