How good it was of her to take him! What faith she showed in him! He fully realised the isolation of the home to which marriage with him would condemn her. He was not only much older than she but was impressed by the sense of their different social positions. He had risen from small tenant-farmer to the stewardship of Admiral Marlowe's estates, and she was of a good old family that ranked high among the aristocracy of proud Guernsey. He could give her comfort but not luxury. She was beautiful, she was clever. Would she feel herself buried at Old Lafer, or would his affection atone for the loss of social congenialities and throw a glamour over the eeriness of winter storms and the loneliness of summer sunshine? The innate poetry of his nature had enthroned her as a flower among flowers at Rocozanne. He should never forget the wealth of bloom in the garden when he entered it on his first visit, the glow of colour from plants that were tropical compared to the homely herbs and posies of Old Lafer. It had dazzled him. The white house, the blaze of geranium, the scent of heliotrope, the lap of the sea that quivered in the sun like the million facets of diamonds, the heat mists that bathed the cliffs, the mellow mushroom tints of the old church beyond the evergreen oaks whose glossy denseness of foliage threw the whole picture into high relief, had impressed him with the perception of brilliancy and ease and luxury. Clothilde, rising slowly and gracefully from a low chair in the shade of the trees and coming towards him with outstretched hands, gave the touch of human nature which at once subordinated all to itself. Her eyes shone with welcome. Little Anna, running from the gate into the churchyard betwixt whose bars she had been playing with the grave-digger's dog, slid her fingers into his palm and stared at him with an elfish gaze from beneath her breeze-blown hair. Clothilde stooped, smoothed the hair and kissed the child's forehead. The action sealed Mr. Severn's fate. The November twilight was deepening when he reached the highest point of his walk to-day. A few more steps took him to the edge of the cliffs above St. Brelade's bay. The sun had set, leaving lurid gleams piercing a fringe of cloud that seemed to have been torn from the thicker clouds above, and would soon hide the sky-line in a driving mist of rain. The wind was increasing. Sheets of foam dashed against Noirmont, the bay was a waste of tumbled water driving on to the beach. His gaze travelled across it to the church nestling at the foot of a gorge full of chestnuts and evergreen oaks. He could distinguish the bulk of its tower against the hill. The sea-wall that buttressed the grave-yard was continued along the terrace garden of Rocozanne. But he could not distinguish Rocozanne until suddenly a light flared out from a window, and after a fitful gleam or two, settled there.