When they had set out, Katherine took a white woolen shawl over her arm--for even in July the breeze was sometimes chill at sundown--and strolled along the road, or rather cart track, which led between the cliffs and the sea to the boatman's cottage. She passed this, nodding pleasantly to the sturdy old man, who was busy in his cabbage garden, and pursued a path which led as far as a footing could be found, to where the sea washed against the point. It was a favorite spot with Katherine, who was tolerably sure of being undisturbed here. The view across the bay was tranquilly beautiful; the older part of Sandbourne only, with the pretty old inn, was visible from her rocky seat among the bowlders and debris which had fallen from above, while the old tower at the opposite point of the bay stood out black and solid against the flood of golden light behind it. She sat there very still, enjoying the air, the scene, the sweet salt breath of the sea, thinking intently of Rachel Trant's experience, of her fatal weakness, of the unpitying severity of that rule of law under which we social atoms are constrained to live; of the evident fact that were we but wise and good we might always be the beneficent arbiters of our own fate; that there are few pleasures which have not their price; and after all, though she, Katherine, had paid high for hers, it had not cost too much, considering she had been groping in the dimness of imperfect knowledge. Oh, hew she wished she had never attempted to act providence to her mother and herself, but trusted to Errington's sense of generosity and justice! Of course it would have been humiliating to beg from a stranger, yet before that stranger she had been compelled to lower herself to the dust, and-- The unwonted sound of approaching feet startled her. She turned, to see De Burgh within speaking distance. "I am like Robinson Crusoe in my solitude here," she said, smiling. "I turn pale at the sound of an unexpected step, as he did at the print of Friday's foot." "And to continue the smile," he returned, leaning against a rock near her, "the footprint or step, as in Crusoe's case, only announces the advent of a devoted slave." He spoke lightly, and Katherine scarce noticed what seemed to her an idle compliment. "I fancied you had gone to town," she said. "No; I am not going to town; I don't know or care where I am going. Some kind friends might say I am on my way to the dogs." "I hope not," said Katherine, gravely. "I imagine, Mr. De Burgh, that if you had some object of ambition--" "I should become an Admirable Crichton? I don't think so. There are such dreary pauses in the current of all careers!" "Of course. You would not live in a tornado!" "I am not so sure"--laughing. "At all events I shall never be satisfied with still life like our friend Errington." "Do you know anything of him? Mrs. Ormonde never mentions his name."