Glenn Andrews could not leave without seeing her again. He had sent her a message. In the afternoon of the last day he went down to the seaside where she was stopping. The expression on his face was one of unrelenting yet melancholy determination. She was not in, so he struck across the sand and strolled along the beach until he found her. In spite of the pain in her heart, her sensitive, proud face denied it. There was a smile on her pale lips. “You’re about as hard to reach as the bag of gold at the rainbow’s end,” Glenn said, “but I am glad to find that the other hunters have not reached here. From stories that came back to town, you don’t often escape all of your admirers at once. I am fortunate to find you alone.” “They are fairy stories that every girl has a right to be a heroine of during the season.” “I ventured to ask you to be so good as to give me an hour, only because I am going away so soon, and I may not see you again.” “Your ‘so’ is femininely unsatisfactory. That is the speech of a woman. How soon is that?” He pointed across the water. “You see that ship? Just about this time to-morrow, when the Majestic sails that way, you may know I am aboard of her. I will wave you a farewell.” Esther felt a tremor run over her. She looked past him at the baffled surf, as, white with rage, it sprang against the pier, retreating with a roar, leaving a glimpse of the green sea stones beneath. “So soon as that?” she said, her eyes opening and closing convulsively. “I must have been asleep; I didn’t realize that the time was so near.” “Time is a mule; it always takes the opposite gait from that which you want it to take. This month has taken wings.” He gave a swift glance at her. “And I expect the next one to crawl--that is, after the voyage. I love the water.” “As the doctor thinks the sea air so good for you, why don’t you cruise along the shores of France?” “I may,” hesitatingly he answered; a sense of guilt came over him at the thought of his deception. “How long do you expect to be gone?” “I don’t know,” he said, absently; he knew this was not curiosity, but personal concern; “it may be three months, or three years.” “Which do you expect it to be?” “I do not expect, because to do that is to rob one’s self of the emotion of surprise, without which there is little pleasure in living.” “I don’t believe I could be surprised any more. I know how little there is ahead. I have been arranging it all in my mind.” He looked seaward. “How’s that?” “Well, Mrs. Low goes home with her daughter.” Here she touched her hands together impulsively. “You both are going; that leaves me alone.” “If thoughts count for anything, you will never be alone.” “How am I to know that?”