It was a good deal past one when Marmaduke, in rather an evil temper, ran the pleasure-boat into the little pier where she was ready waiting. He looked less buoyant than usual and apologised for being late. All the fishing fleet were out, he said, and he had waited in vain to get a man. "Not that that matters!" he added, recovering himself, as he helped her in. "You are as good as a man any day, Marmie." And yet, when, after a three hours' sail before the wind, they reached the Craig, and, mooring the boat, climbed to the westering cliffs beneath which the waves set a frill of white lace, he fairly startled her by saying suddenly: "Marmie, I've made up my mind; I am going to marry you. I've thought over everything from start to finish, and I'm certain it is the best thing for both of us. Now, my dear girl, let me have my say for once; you shall have yours by-and-by. I'm not going to talk of what you did for me with my father. I'm not sure yet, you see, whether I am vexed or grateful. A man doesn't like to be exactly--well--herded; but you did it; and that intolerable vixen Penelope--but I won't talk about her either. Then there's the hair business," he eyed her ruefully, though in truth, now that the ends began to curl, the shearing was no such dis-sight, "that also was my fault; and now"--he paused, and a red flush of anger rose to his brow--"the goody-goodies in Ayr apparently won't let you alone, and one of the youngsters this morning tried to cut a joke; but I won't talk of that either. The long and short of it is, Marmie, that you and I have got to get married. And"--his voice changed to almost affection--"you know, dear, what you stand for with me--for everything that I know to be really worth having--everything that--well--I ought to be and am not. For it's the old story, Marmie, I'm Tristram Shandy and you are the Shorter Catechism, so--so come and help me, won't you?" With his voice in her ears she sat for a moment looking out westwards. A low bank of cloud had obscured the horizon, the sun just thinking of sinking behind it shone with unearthly brilliance over the sea, over him, over herself. Then she disengaged her hand from his gently, and, rising, stood on the extreme verge of the cliff, looking down into the dazzling, shifting green of the waves. Would it, after all, be so great a plunge downwards? She had often imagined the choice coming to her. Suddenly she spoke: