ce.

"There is a man in St. Clair called Pyn, a boatman living in the first
cottage you come to, Denas," he said. "I have given him money, and my
letters to you will go to him. Can you walk to St. Clair for them?" It
was a foolish question; Roland knew that Denas would walk twenty miles
for a letter from him. He then gave her some addressed envelopes in
which to enclose her letters to him. "Pyn will post them," he said,
"and the handwriting will deceive everyone. And I shall come back to
you, Denas, as soon as I can get away from my father; and Pyn will
bring a message to St. Penfer and let you know, in some way, when I
get home."

These particulars being fully arranged and understood, he talked to
her of her own loveliness. He told her she was more beautiful in her
plain white frock than the bride in her bride-robes. He said all that
lovers have said from the beginning of time; all that lovers will say
until time ends. Denas believed him, believed every word, for the
nature of true love is to be without doubt or fear. And Roland thought
he loved her quite well enough for their future life together. If she
was to become a public singer, it would not be wise for him to have
too exclusive and jealous affection for her. Roland had always been
prudent for himself; he thought of everything which might affect his
own happiness. This night, however, he gave up all for love. He kept
Denas by his side until the gloaming was quite gone, and then he
walked with her down to the very shingle. They parted with tears and
kisses and murmured protestations of fidelity. And Denas watched her
lover until he reached the first bend in the upward path. There he
turned, and she stretched out her arms to him, and Roland lifted his
hat and kissed his hand, and then vanished among the thick trees.

The moon was just rising. She made the air silver, and Denas could see
the fishing-boats on the horizon swimming in her quivering beams. She
knew, then, that her father was at sea. As she approached the cottage
she saw her mother sitting on the door-step. Her arms were folded
across her knees, she stooped forward, she had an air of discontent or
anxiety. There was also a dumb feeling of resentment in her heart,
though she did not actually know that there was reason for it. She
tried to meet her child pleasantly, but could not, and she was almost
angry at the stubborn indifference which she was unable to conquer.

"You be long in getting home, Dena