As a child I had been neglected for the firstborn, I had enjoyed through this neglect an absolute freedom with regard to associating with fisher-boys and all the shoeless, hatless ‘sea-pups’ of the sands, and now, when the time had come to civilise me, my mother had found that it was too late.  I was bohemian to the core.  My childish intercourse with Winifred had been one of absolute equality, and I could not now divest myself of this relation.  These were my thoughts as I listened to my mother’s words.

My great fear now, however, was lest I should say something to compromise myself, and so make matter worse.  Before another word upon the subject should pass between my mother and me I must see Winifred—­and then I had something to say to her which no power on earth should prevent me from saying.  So I merely told my mother that there was much truth in what she had said, and proceeded to ask particulars about my father’s recent illness.  After giving me these particulars she left the room, perplexed, I thought, as to what had been the result of her mission.

IV

I remained alone for some time.  Then I told the servants that I was going to walk along the cliffs to Dullingham Church, where there was an evening service, and left the house.  I hastened towards the cliffs, and descended to the sands, in the hope that Winifred might be roaming about there, but I walked all the way to Dullingham without getting a glimpse of her.  The church service did not interest me that evening.  I heard nothing and saw nothing.  When the service was over I returned along the sands, sauntering and lingering in the hope that, late as it was now growing, the balmy evening might have enticed her out.

The evening grew to night, and still I lingered.  The moon was nearly at the full, and exceedingly bright.  The tide was down.  The scene was magical; I could not leave it.  I said to myself, ’I will go and stand on the very spot where Winifred stood when she lisped “certumly” to the proposal of her little lover.’

It was not, after all, till this evening that I really knew how entirely she was a portion of my life.

I went and stood by the black boulder where I had received the little child’s prompt reply.  There was not a grain left, I knew, of that same sand which had been hallowed by the little feet of Winifred, but it served my mood just as well as though every grain had felt the beloved pressure.  For that the very sands had loved the child, I half believed.

I said to myself, as I sat down upon the boulder, ’At this very moment she is here, she is in Raxton.  In a certain little cottage there is a certain little room.’  And then I longed to leave the sands, to go and stand in front of Wynne’s cottage and dream there.  But that would be too foolish.  ‘I must get home,’ I thought.  ’The night will pass somehow, and in the morning I shall, as sure as fate, see her flitting about the sands she loves, and then what I have sworn to say to her I will say, and what I have sworn to do I will do, come what will.’