But of a morning, as the tide came in, it was pleasant to watch the bathers--men swimming with fearless little boys, mothers dipping astonished babies, and acres of scarlet-clad figures tripping along the sand, or waltzing in the surf, like blossoms blown about--while the sky lay low and fleecy and warm over the scene. I remember the sand-piper's cry, the peals of laughter, and lowing of the cattle in the marshes. I recollect the saxifrage that grew among the rocks, the spring that pushed its way over the salt pebbles to the waters of the cove, and the sweet notes of the little brown shore birds. I recall a day when the sunshine was very bland; glittering carriage loads of dolce far niente pleasure-seekers rolled slowly down the sands. Staniels' canopied boat, its silken flag fluttering, softly rocked at his moorings, little white tents, the mushroom dwellings of sportsmen, dotted the rocks, and the sea glittered and tossed under the serene blueness of the sky. It was all enjoyable then, but an element of tragedy entered into it afterwards which makes me recall the place with a pang of sorrow. I seem to hear a woman's shrieks ringing out over that blue, smiling water. I was smoking in the bowling alley one evening, when a light coupe came dashing over the sands, and stopped at the door of the hotel. John Saunders, my good friend and host, came out to meet a singularly handsome man, who alighted, and entered into conversation with him. "By jingo!" exclaimed a volatile voice in my ear. "Colonel Staniels!" and my mercurial friend, Walt Summers, finished his exclamation of surprise with a prolonged whistle. "Are you sure?" I asked, for I knew the name, though not the man then. "Yes; know his carriage. And then no one could ever see Eben Staniels and mistake him afterwards." I was certain of that when I saw the gentleman at supper. He was about the medium height, with a magnificent chest, a handsome head covered with curling brown hair, and a prompt, military bearing. His eyes were gray, bright, unflinching and very handsome. He wore a closely-trimmed dark beard, and his regular features, straight brows and bold white forehead made his face as fine as it was fearless. He seemed entirely indifferent to the sensation he produced. It was generally known that he had been divorced from his wife two years previous, and this fact, together with his wealth, standing and personal appearance, made him an object of attention to everybody. His manner was unexceptionable, and his bearing perfectly cool, to an ordinary observer; but as I passed him on the porch, late in the evening, smoking, I saw him looking silently over the moon-lighted sea, and wincing at his secret thoughts. His room adjoined mine. He was at Marshlea three weeks before I made his acquaintance. He knocked at my door one evening just at sunset. "Mr. Cathmor, would you like to drive in town with me to-night? The sunset promises us a fine evening."