Left alone, Margery stood for a while at the window, gazing at the rough, angry sea; then she asked Pauline for her cloak and hat. “Will miladi that I go with her?” asked the maid, in her broken English. Margery shook her head. “I shall not go far; and this wind does you no good, Pauline.” “Miladi is so kind. If she will permit, I think that hat will not be wise. See this _capuchon_--so warm! It will be best.” Margery agreed, and tied the comfortable hood round her delicate, lovely face, looking sweetly fair with her halo of red-gold curls and her deep, lustrous blue eyes. She turned toward the shore; the roaring and dashing of the sea exhilarated her, the strong, soft wind seemed to blow away the clouds of doubt and pain that hung over her. Her sorrow was lost in the pleasurable excitement that thrilled her as she stood, wind-blown and rain-drenched, and watched the great waves come rolling in, with their thunderous voices and mountains of spray. The tempest seemed to suit her humor; she reveled in the freedom and wildness of the elements as in the birth of a new life--a life with hope springing glorious within. She moved on as quickly as the wind would allow, stopping every now and then to gather her cloak closer around her. The gale had blown her curls in rough fashion all over her hood; there was a light in her eyes, a glow of color on her fair cheeks; for the moment she looked the Margery of old, not the sad girl-widow of present days. Few of the fisher-folk were about; but in the distance she could see some children running to and fro on the shore, and the wind now and then wafted their voices to her ears. Tired at last, her breath almost spent, she turned inland in a cross direction, determining to rest at one of the cottages before going home. The wind blew her along at times, almost taking her off her feet; and she had to drop upon the wet beach more than once to gather strength. At last she sighted the cottages, and struggled to the first one. The women knew her well; she was a great favorite, and they were never tired of dwelling on her youth, beauty, sad history, and goodness and generosity. She knocked at the rough door, and it was opened immediately. “May I come in and rest, Mrs. David?” she asked, leaning back against the doorpost, almost breathless. “Lor’ bless me, my lady, in course! Come in at once!” exclaimed the buxom fisherwoman. “It is a sight too wild for you to be out. It is rough here, too, my lady. The chair is hard; but----” “It is most acceptable,” sighed Margery, sinking, with a sigh of fatigue, into the great wooden chair. “I have been walking along the shore. How rough the sea is to-day! And how have you been, Mrs. David? You look sad--are you in trouble? Oh”--catching sight of a small form covered with blankets lying in a warm corner by the fire--“your child is ill?” Mrs. David put her apron to her eyes.