He broke off with a look of glad hope, and I could see it was forbearance rather than constitutional diffidence that withheld him from awakening the maiden’s feelings. He was a very fine looking man, in his prime—tall, strong, and well made, with a singularly grave, thoughtful expression, and a rare but most winning smile; and Anne was overflowing with affectionate gladness at intercourse with one who belonged to the golden age of her childhood. I could scarcely believe but that in the friction of the parting the spark would be elicited, and I should even have liked to kindle it for them myself, being tolerably certain that warm-hearted, unguarded Parson Frank would forget all about his lady and blow it with all his might. We dined with the Fordyces at their hotel, and sat in the twilight with the windows open, and we made Anne and Clarence sing, as both could do without notes, but he would not undertake to remember anything with an atom of sentiment in it, and when Anne did sing, ‘Auld lang syne,’ with all her heart, he went and got into a dark corner, and barely said, ‘Thank you.’ Not a definite answer could be extracted from him in reply to all the warm invitations to Beachharbour that were lavished on us by the father, while the daughter expatiated on its charms; the rocks I might sketch, the waves and the delicious boating, and above all the fisher children and the church. Nothing was wanting but to have us all there! Why had we not brought Mrs. Winslow, and Emily, and Martyn, instead of going to Dawlish? Good creatures, they little knew the chill that had been cast upon Martyn. They even bemoaned the having seen so little of him. And we knew all the time that they were mice at play in the absence of their excellent and cautious cat. ‘Now mind you do come!’ said Anne, as we were in the act of taking leave. ‘It would be as good as Hillside to have you by my Lion rock. He has a nose just like old Chapman’s, and you must sketch it before it crumbles off. Yes, and I want to show you all the dear old things you made for my baby-house after the fire, your dear little wardrobe and all.’ She was coming out with us, oblivious that a London hotel was not like her own free sea-side house. Her father was out at the carriage door, prepared to help me in, Clarence halted a moment— ‘Please, pray, go back, Anne,’ he said, and his voice trembled. ‘This is not home you know.’ She started back, but paused. ‘You’ll not forget.’ ‘Oh no; no fear of my forgetting.’ And when seated beside me, he leant back with a sigh. ‘How could you help?’ I said. ‘How? Why the perfect, innocent, childish, unconsciousness of the thing,’ he said, and became silent except for one murmur on the way. ‘Consequences must be borne—’ CHAPTER XLIII. THE PRICE. ‘With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine.’ LORD BYRON.