never be able to
find your father. He is in China on a secret mission for the Government.
That is why he cannot write or receive letters. You must be content with
us for a little longer. We may hear from your uncle any day."

There was a dead silence. In her face were traces of a strange new
nervousness.

"If I could get away--a long distance away!" Eleanor exclaimed, with a
sudden tremulous emotion. "If only I could."

Powers took one of her restless hands in his.

"Eleanor," he said, "we have been talking about taking you to a little
place we have in Lincolnshire, close to the sea. There will be only
Marian and I. You shall be alone as much as you choose. No one shall
come near you whom you do not care to see."

She looked at him almost wistfully.

"To-morrow!" she repeated.

They left London early the next morning and Eleanor, with a face that
was almost haggard leaned wearily back in the train and scarcely spoke
during the entire trip.

Toward the end of dinner, on the evening of their arrival, Powers threw
open the French windows and let in the deep music of the sea. She
started to her feet with a strange little cry.

"Hark!"

It was the first sign of her awakening interest in life.

"The tide is coming in," Powers said. "You see the beach is just below
the gardens."

She stepped through the window and crossed the lawn. From there a
winding path led down to the beach. She never paused until she stood
upon the shingle, with her pale, rapt face turned seaward. Powers
followed noiselessly close behind. Almost to their feet, the long waves
came thundering in, weird and ghostlike. She stood like a statue, her
lips parted, her bosom rising and falling quickly under her dinner-gown.

"Listen," she murmured, "it is the old cry, unending, everlasting. Where
have I heard it before? Oh, tell me! Tell me!"

"I cannot," he answered. "I would that I could!"

She paid no more attention to him. She stood with her face turned
seaward, listening--always listening. He went back to the house and
brought wraps. She let him adjust them without thanks or remark. Soon
the gathering darkness blotted out everything except the faint
phosphorescent light on the tops of the breaking waves.

"Come," he said at last, touching her arm gently, "it is late, and we
have left Marian alone."

She did not move, but soon Marian came out and called to them. Then she
permitted him to lead her slowly toward the house, pausing every n