“Oh, papa! you must think me so bold and unwomanly,” she said. “Till this sorrow came upon us I did not know that I loved him. I did not know how dear he had become to me in the happy, tranquil days at home. When he left us, I felt there was a blank in my life, somehow, except when I was with you. But I thought no more than this. It was only when I heard that he was lost to us for ever that I knew how truly I loved him.” “And he loved you, darling, as truly and as fondly!” answered the father, hiding the blushing face upon his breast. “Did he tell you that, papa?” “He did. The night before he started on that fatal excursion. And now, dearest girl! be brave, and let me take you from this place, where your presence can do no possible good.” “I will, dear father--if you will first grant me one favour.” “What is that?” “Let me see the place where he perished. Take me to the sands along which he was to come, and upon which he must have met his death.” “My darling! what good can that do?” “Oh, none, perhaps,” cried Helen, impatiently; “but it is just the one thing that can reconcile me to leaving this place. If he had died a natural death, and been buried among the quiet dead, I should ask you to take me to his grave, and you could not refuse. I ask you almost the same thing now. Let me look upon the scene of his death!” “It shall be so, Helen,” replied Theodore, gravely, “though I fear I shall do wrong in yielding to such a wish.” “My darling father! Then you will go with me to the sands to-morrow at low tide? You will inquire the time at which we ought to go?” “I will do anything foolish for your sake! But, Helen, when I have done this you will go with me to Pendarvoch quietly?” “You shall take me where you please.” Later in the evening M. de Bergerac saw Harold Jerningham, ascertained the hour of the turning tide, and arranged the counter-ordering of the carriage. At noon, they told him, the tide would be within an hour of turning, and any ordinary walker, starting for Halko’s Head at that time, might arrive there with ease and safety. “Helen and I want to see the coast with our own eyes,” said M. de Bergerac, anxious to shield his daughter’s weakness in some measure by affecting to share her wish; “so before we leave this place we have determined to explore the way by which that poor fellow must have come.” “Helen!--Will she go with you?” “Why not? She, too, would like to see this fatal coast.” “A strange fancy.” “It may be wiser to indulge it.” “Be it so. But the distance to Halko’s Head by the coast is seven miles. Helen can hardly walk so far.” “I think on this occasion she could do so.” “I will go with you, and we will take a boat in which she can complete the journey, should she feel tired.”