She could never weary of the “infinite variety” of the sea. Some days, in fine, weather, when the sky was clear, the air calm and the water smooth, the bay spread out a vast level mirror, framed far away by green shores and reflecting the firmament from a bosom pure and peaceable as heaven. Other days, when the winds were rising and the waves heaving, the whole sky lowered down upon the sea, the wild waters leaped to meet it, and clouds and waves were mingled together in dreadful chaos, like two opposing armies in mortal conflict. Some nights the whole grand expanse of the bay was changed into an ocean of fluid silver, with shores of diamond light, by the shining of the full moon down upon the clear water and glittering, white sandy beach. Other nights, when there was no moon, the dark, transparent waters reflected clearly the deep blue firmament, brilliantly studded with stars. And between these extreme phases, under foul or fair days, or dark or bright nights, there was every variety and shade of change. When the weather and her engagements permitted, Mrs. Helmstedt, attended only by her faithful Newfoundlander, Fidelle, passed much time in walking up and down the sandy beach, looking far out upon the free waters, or using her spyglass to observe some distant passing ship and its crew. She made the most of the space allotted to her. The isle, a mile long by a quarter broad, was about two miles and a half round. Often, to afford herself the longest walk, she started from some given spot, and, following the beach, made the circuit of the island--a long and varied walk for a stranger, but monotonous to her who had no other, and who from her earliest infancy had been a natural rambler. She who through childhood and youth had delighted to wander out among the wild scenes of nature, and lose herself amid the pathless woods, or to spring upon her favorite steed and fly over hill and vale, miles and miles away; or jump into a boat propelled by her own single hand, and explore the coast, with its frequent points and headlands, creeks and inlets, felt most severely and bitterly this constraint upon her motions. She never complained, in word, or even in look; she accepted the suffering and hid it deep in her heart with her secret sorrow. Both preyed upon her health of mind and body. Daily her form grew thinner and the fire in her cheeks and eye brighter and fiercer. Philip Helmstedt observed all this with pain and dread. Yet his pride and firmness would not permit him to yield one tittle. “This is a conflict between our wills, Marguerite,” he said, “and one in which you should at once, as you must sooner or later, yield.” “I will when I can, Philip.” “You must, for you are very weary of this island.” “I have not said so.” “You are very obstinate, Mrs. Helmstedt.” “I am very unhappy in offending you--that is a greater sorrow to me than my restraint.”