As they walked, they talked, saying to each other the thousand dear and foolish things that lovers have said since, back in the Garden, the First Woman looked into the eyes of the First Man and knew that God had made her to be his mate. Suddenly a white cliff loomed up on the beach before them and from its depths came a tremendous knocking, as though some one were endeavouring to escape from a hopeless fastness of stone. [Sidenote: A Stroke] They paused, but the knocking continued, growing louder and louder. Then a hoarse voice called "Rosemary! Rosemary!" The girl came to herself with a start, rubbing her eyes. Gaunt and grey in the first dim light of morning, Aunt Matilda stood over her, clad in a nondescript dressing-gown. "Rosemary!" she whispered, shrilly. "Come quick! Ma's had a stroke!" They ran back to the old lady's room. In the girl's confused remembrance the narrow hallway seemed to be a continuation of the white, sunlit beach, with the blue sky and sea changed to faded wall paper, and the cliff gone. Grandmother lay upon her bed, helpless, uttering harsh, guttural sounds that seemingly bore no relation to speech. Her eyes blazed at the sight of Rosemary and she tried to sit up in bed, but could not. "When?" asked Rosemary. "Just now," Aunt Matilda answered. "I was asleep, and when I woke up I heard her. She must have woke me up. What shall we do?" she continued, helplessly, after a pause. [Sidenote: A Lie] "I don't know," Rosemary whispered, almost stunned by the shock. "I'll dress and go for the doctor." In an hour she had returned with the physician, who felt the old lady's pulse, and shook his head. In the hall, he interviewed the other two. "Has she had any shock?" he asked. For a moment there was no answer, then Matilda answered clearly: "No." "No," echoed Rosemary. "No unusual excitement of any sort? Or no bad news?" "Not that I know of," Matilda replied, calmly. "Nothing unusual," Rosemary assured him. "Extraordinary!" he murmured. "I'll be in again this afternoon." When he had gone, Aunt Matilda turned anxiously to Rosemary. "Do you think we did right? Shouldn't we have told him?" "I don't know what difference it could make," Rosemary replied, thoughtfully. "I'd hate to have anybody know what she's done. Maybe it's my fault," she went on, sadly. "Perhaps I shouldn't have told her." "Don't go to blaming yourself, Rosemary. I don't know why you shouldn't have told her. If I'd been you, I'd have told her long ago--or had you just found it out?" [Sidenote: Unable to Speak] "I've known for quite a while. I don't think I'd have said anything, though, if I wasn't going to be married. It didn't seem as if I could be married in brown gingham when father meant for me to have everything I wanted and the money was there." "Don't worry about it for a minute," said Aunt Matilda, kindly. "You've done just right and you ain't to blame for what's happened. It's her own fault."