a little. "What is your full name?" she asked
finally.

"Alfred Cayley Pounce," he replied. "My father gave me the name of
Alfred that I might always remember I was _A_ Cayley Pounce. But my
ambition is to be _The_ Cayley Pounce," he added with a nervous little
laugh.

Beth compressed her lips, and looked at the rising tide. The next wave
broke at their feet, and both involuntarily stepped back. Behind them
was the mass of earth that had fallen from the cliff. It had descended
in a solid wedge without scattering. Alfred climbed on to it, and
helped Beth up. "We shall be a little higher here, at all events," he
said.

Beth looked along the cliff; the high-water mark was still above their
heads. "It's getting exciting, isn't it?" she observed. "But I don't
feel nasty. Having you here makes--makes a difference, you know."

"If you have to die with me, how shall you feel?" he asked.

"I shall feel till my last gasp that I would much rather have lived
with you," she answered emphatically.

A wavelet splashed up against the clay on which they were standing. He
turned to the cliff and tore at it in a sort of exasperation, trying
to scoop out footholes with his hands by which they might climb up;
but the effort was futile, the soft shale crumbled as he scooped, and
there was no hold to be had on it. His face had grown grey in the last
few minutes, and his eyes were strained and anxious.

"I wonder how you feel," Beth said. "I think I resent the fate that
threatens us more than I fear it. If my life must end now, it will be
so unfinished."

He made no reply, and she stood looking out to sea thoughtfully. "It's
Sunday," she observed at last. "There won't be many boats about
to-day."

The water had begun to creep up on to their last refuge; it washed
over her feet as she spoke, and she shrank back. Alfred put his arm
round her protectingly.

"Do you still believe we shall not be drowned?" he said.

"Yes," she answered. "But, even if we were, it wouldn't be the end of
us. We have been here in this world before, you and I, and we shall
come again."

"What makes you think such queer things?" he asked.

"I don't think them," she answered. "I know them. The things I think
are generally all wrong; but the things I know about--that come to me
like this--are right. Only I can't command them. One comes to me now
and again like a flash, as that one did down there just now when I
said we should not be drowned; but if I put