contacts with and concepts of life—­and death—­had always, been more or less artificial.  Perhaps these simple and laborious folk had the substance of things of which she and her sort had but the shadow.  And then she asked herself:  Well, but couldn’t one, anywhere, in any circumstances, make life real for oneself, meet facts unafraid?  Get at the truths, somehow?  That’s what she had to find out!

And of a sudden she had been answered.  The reality, the truth, the real meaning of life was made plain to her when a man she didn’t know, and yet knew to the last fiber of her soul, had paused to look into her eyes.

For two or three days she went no further than the rambling garden at the back of the house.  She tried to read, and couldn’t.  From every page those eyes looked at her.  There was more in that remembered glance than in any book ever written, and she was torn between the desire to meet it again and the fear of meeting it.

On the night of the third day she sat with her elbows on her windowsill, looking out at the moonlight night.  A sweet wind touched her face, like the breath of love.  There arose the scent of quiet places, of trees and flowers and herbs, mingled with the vast breathing of the sea.  And she thought the sea called to her, an imperious and yet caressing voice in the night.  She stirred restlessly.  Down there on the shore-line, where she had met him, the rocks would glint with silvery reflections, the water would come fawning to one’s feet, the wind would pounce upon one like a rough lover.  She stirred restlessly.  The small bedroom seemed to hold her like a cage.  And again the sea called, a wild and compelling voice.

Her blood stirred to the magic of the night.  Her eyes gleamed, her cheek reddened.  She listened for a moment, intently.  The Widow Thatcher slept the sleep of the good housekeeper.  No one was stirring.  She could have the night, the wind, the sea, to herself.  Noiselessly she stole downstairs and let herself out.

Out there, with the scent of the summer night greeting her, with bushes brushing her lightly with their green fingers, her heart leaped joyously.  She flung her arms over her head and went running down the path to the water, a tall white figure with flying hair.  Then she turned the small headland, and the village dropped behind her.  Overhead the big gold lamp of the moon lighted shore and sea.  And here came the sea-wind, bracing, strong, and sweet.  At the rush of it she laughed aloud, and the wind seized upon her laughter and tossed it into the night like airy bells.

She slackened her wild race when she neared the great boulders shutting in the little narrow path where she had met him, and stood flushed, panting, her shining glance uplifted, her bright hair framing the sweetness of her face.  And even as she paused, he stepped out of the shadow and confronted her.  As if he had been awaiting her.  As if he had known she must come.  He said, in a voice vibrant with fierce joy: