ere to await the coming of my wife. The morning was
gray, wild, and melancholy; the wind moderated before sunrise, and then
went about, and blew in puffs from the shore; the sea began to go down,
but the rain still fell without mercy. Over all the wilderness of links
there was not a creature to be seen. Yet I felt sure the neighborhood was
alive with skulking foes. The light that had been so suddenly and
surprisingly flashed upon my face as I lay sleeping, and the hat that had
been blown ashore by the wind from over Graden Floe, were two speaking
signals of the peril that environed Clara and the party in the pavilion.

It was, perhaps, half-past seven, or nearer eight, before I saw the door
open, and that dear figure come toward me in the rain. I was waiting for
her on the beach before she had crossed the sand hills.

"I have had such trouble to come!" she cried. "They did not wish me to go
walking in the rain."

"Clara," I said, "you are not frightened!"

"No," said she, with a simplicity that filled my heart with confidence.
For my wife was the bravest as well as the best of women; in my
experience, I have not found the two go always together, but with her they
did; and she combined the extreme of fortitude with the most endearing and
beautiful virtues.

I told her what had happened; and, though her cheek grew visibly paler,
she retained perfect control over her senses.

"You see now that I am safe," said I, in conclusion. "They do not mean to
harm me; for, had they chosen, I was a dead man last night."

She laid her hand upon my arm.

"And I had no presentiment!" she cried.

Her accent thrilled me with delight. I put my arm about her, and strained
her to my side; and, before either of us was aware, her hands were on my
shoulders and my lips upon her mouth. Yet up to that moment no word of
love had passed between us. To this day I remember the touch of her cheek,
which was wet and cold with the rain; and many a time since, when she has
been washing her face, I have kissed it again for the sake of that morning
on the beach. Now that she is taken from me, and I finish my pilgrimage
alone, I recall our old loving kindnesses and the deep honesty and
affection which united us, and my present loss seems but a trifle in
comparison.

We may have thus stood for some seconds--for time passes quickly with
lovers--before we were startled by a peal of laughter close at hand. It
was not natural mirth, but seemed to be af