‘Did you—­did you see me from the cliffs, sir, am; come down?’ said Winifred.

‘Winifred,’ said I, ’the polite thing to say would be “Yes”; but you know “Fighting Hal” never was remarkable for politeness, so I will say frankly that did not come down from the cliff’s on seeing you.  But when I did see you, I wasn’t very likely to return without speaking to you.’

‘I am locked out,’ said Winifred, in explanation of her moonlight ramble.  ’My father went off to Dullingham with the key in his pocket while I and Snap were in the garden, so we have to wait till his return.  Good-night, sir,’ and she gave me her hand.  I seemed to feel the fingers around my heart, and knew that I was turning very pale.  ‘The same little sunburnt fingers.’  I said, as I retained them in mine ’just the same, Winifred!  But it’s not “good-night” yet.  No, no, it’s not good-night yet; and, Winifred if you dare to call me “sir” again, I declare I’ll kiss you where you stand.  I will, Winifred.  I’ll put my arms right round that slender waist and kiss you under that moon, as sure as you stand on these sands.’

‘Then I will not call you “sir."’ said Winifred laughingly.  ‘Certainly I will not call you “sir,” if that is to be the penalty.’

‘Winifred,’ said I, ’the last time that I remember to have heard you say “certainly” was on this very spot.  You then pronounced it “certumly,” and that was when I asked you if I might be your lover.  You said “certumly” on that occasion without the least hesitation.’

Winifred, as I could see, even by the moonlight, was blushing.  ’Ah, those childish days!’ she said.  ‘How delightful they were, sir!’

‘"Sir” again!’ said I.  ’Now, Winifred, I am going to execute my threat—­I am indeed.’

She put up her hands before her face and said,

‘Oh, don’t! please don’t.’

The action no doubt might seem coquettish, but the tone of her voice was so genuine, so serious—­so agitated even—­that I paused:—­I paused in bewilderment and perplexity concerning us both.  I observed that her fingers shook as she held them before her face.  That she should be agitated at seeing me after so long a separation did not surprise me, I being deeply agitated myself.  It was the nature of her emotion that puzzled me, until suddenly I remembered my mother’s words.

I perceived then that, child of Nature as she still was, some one had given her a careful training which had transfigured my little Welsh rustic into a lady.  She had not failed to apprehend the anomaly of her present position—­on the moonlit sands with me.  Though could not break free from the old equal relations between us.  Winifred had been able to do so.

‘To her,’ I thought with shame, ’my offering to kiss her at such a place and time must have seemed an insult.  The very fact of my attempting to do so must have seemed to indicate an offensive consciousness of the difference of our social positions.  It must have, seemed to show that I recognised a distinction between the drunken organist’s daughter and a lady.’