Sister Margaret had not exerted herself in vain. In addition to the usual dish of chops, she had purchased a pigeon pie, a lobster, and various trifles on her way through the town. In fact, she looked on the repast she spread before Webster with pardonable pride. And he tried to make the whole thing pleasant. He told some good stories; he complimented Sister Margaret on her pie, and the good woman thoroughly enjoyed herself. And when lunch was over, Webster, after going to the window and looking at the smooth sea and the sailing boats scudding on its blue breast, proposed that they should go out for a sail, and Sister Margaret was quite delighted with the idea. "I have not been out for a sail since I was a girl," she said; "it will make me feel young again." "And you?" said Webster, looking at May, "would you like to go?" "I think I should," answered May, gently. So they went down to the beach and engaged a sailing boat, and were soon flying on white wings before the light gale. It was a beautiful day, sunny, cloudless, almost warm, and yet with the crisp touch of the early winter in the clear air. That crisp touch brought a wild-rose bloom back once more to May's fair oval cheeks; it brightened her eyes, and she smiled more than once as she sat by Webster's side. "I have never been on the sea before," she said to Webster. "Do you remember when--" and for a moment she paused--"when we rode on the Thames?" Yes, Webster remembered that day too well; remembered the beautiful girl sitting opposite to him in the boat, on the reedy river, and dipping her white hands in the stream. There was no shadow on her face then, nor sorrow in her heart. Only sunshine and hope, with the unknown future lying before her bathed in golden light. But he made no allusion to these memories. "I like the sea better than the river," he said, and there swept over his heart a strange and passionate emotion as he spoke; a wish to bear May away from her troubles forever; to carry her to a new haven of rest and peace. But by and by the short winter day began to close, and Sister Margaret drew her cloak nearer to her throat with a little shiver, and glanced uneasily at the distant shore. "It is time we were returning, is it not, Mr. Webster?" she said. These words roused Webster from his love-dream. "Yes, I suppose it is," he said, and he gave directions to the boatmen to set sail for the shore. But it was nearly dark when they reached Hastings, and there was a silver track from a half-moon on the rippling tide. They crossed this in the boat, and Webster hailed it as a good omen. "It means a silver lining to our clouds," he said; "a sign that we must always hope." CHAPTER XXXVII. A SUDDEN CHANGE.