he movement. Mr. Burrell had his watch in his
hand; Roland was directing Frederick as to the particular piece of
fowl he wanted. Then there was a little laugh and the sound of voices,
and Elizabeth and Denas entered together. Elizabeth had made Denas
remove her hat and cloak, and the girl was exceedingly pretty. Roland
leaped to his feet and imperatively motioned Frederick to place a
chair beside his own, and Robert Burrell met her with a frank kindness
which was pleasantly reassuring.

Denas had been feeling wronged and humiliated, but Elizabeth by a few
kind words of apology had caused a reaction which affected her
inexperienced guest with a kind of mental intoxication. Her
countenance glowed, her eyes sparkled, her hair appeared to throw off
light; her ruby-coloured dress with its edges of white lace
accentuated the marvellous colouring of her cheeks and lips, the
snow-white of her wide brows and slender throat, and the intense blue
of eyes that had caught the brightest tone of sea and sky.

She talked well, she was witty without being ill-natured, and she
described all that had happened in the little town since Elizabeth's
wedding-day with a subdued and charming mimicry that made the room
ring with laughter. Also, she ate her breakfast with such evident
enjoyment that she gave an appetite to the others. All took an extra
cup of coffee with her, and it seemed only a part of the general
conversation and delightful intercourse.

After breakfast Robert Burrell said he would delay his visit to London
for a train if Denas would sing for him once more; and they went
together to the parlour, and Roland fell at once into the rocking
measure of Robert's favourite, and in the middle of a bar Denas joined
her voice to it, and they went together as the wind goes through the
trees or the song of the water through its limpid flow.

As she finished, Roland looked at her with a certain intelligence in
his eyes, and then struck a few wild, startling chords. They proved to
be the basis of a sea-chant. Denas heard them with a quick movement of
her head and an involuntary though slight movement of the hands, as
she cried out in a musical cadence:

"Here beginneth the sea,
That ends not until the world ends.
Blow, westerly wind, for me!
When the wind and the tide are friends,
Westerly wind and little white star,
Safe are the fishermen over the bar."

She would sing no more when the chant was finished. She had seen a