Her little face looked pinched and pathetic as she spoke, and for the first time her father had a suspicion of what punishment was to this child--a thing as inevitable as disease, a continually recurring torture, but quite without effect upon her conduct--and his heart contracted with a qualm of pity. "What are you going to be whipped for now?" he asked. "We went to tea at the vicarage, and I ran away home." "Why?" "Because of the great green waves. They rush up the rocks--wish--st--st!" (she took a step forward, and threw up her little arms in illustration)--"then fall, and roll back, and gather, and come rushing on again; and I feel every time--every time--that they are coming right at me!"--she clutched her throat as if she were suffocating; "and if I had stayed I should have shrieked, and then I should have been whipped. So I came away." "But you expect to be whipped for coming away?" "Yes. But you see I don't have the waves as well. And mamma won't say I was afraid." "Were you afraid, Beth?" her father asked. "No!" Beth retorted, stamping her foot indignantly. "If the waves did come at me, I could stand it. It's the coming--coming--coming--I can't bear. It makes me ache here." She clutched at her throat and chest again. Captain Caldwell closed his eyes. He felt that he was beginning to make this child's acquaintance, and wished he had tried to cultivate it sooner. "You shall not be whipped to-night, Beth," he said presently, looking at her with a kindly smile. Instantly an answering smile gleamed on the child's face, transfiguring her; and, by the light of it, her father realised how seldom he had seen her smile. Unfortunately for Beth, however, while her countenance was still irradiated, her mother swooped down upon her. Mrs. Caldwell had come hurrying home in a rage in search of Beth; and now, mistaking that smile for a sign of defiance, she seized upon her, and had beaten her severely before it was possible to interfere. Beth, dazed by this sudden onslaught, staggered when she let her go, and stretched out her little hands as if groping for some support. "It wasn't your fault!--it wasn't your fault!" she gasped, her first instinct being to exonerate her father. Captain Caldwell had started up and caught his wife by the arm. "That's enough," he said harshly. "You are going altogether the wrong way to work with the child. Let this be the last time, do you understand? Beth, go to the nursery, and ask Anne to get you some tea." A sharp pain shot through his head. He had jumped up too quickly, and now fell back on the sofa with a groan. "Oh, let me brush it again," Beth cried, in an agony of sympathy. Her father opened his haggard eyes and smiled. "Go to the nursery, like a good child," he said, "and get some tea." Beth went without another word. But all that evening her mind was with her parents in the sitting-room, wondering--wondering what they were saying to each other. CHAPTER VIII