At last her friend asked her if she would like a run upon the sand, the tide being then out. He drove up to a straggling bit of fence, tied his horse, and lifted Rotha out; who immediately ran down to the narrow beach and as near to the water as she dared; there stood still and looked. There was but a gentle surf that day, with the ebb tide; but to Rotha it was a scene of unparalleled might and majesty. She was drinking in pleasure, as one can at fourteen, with all the young susceptibilities fully alive and strong. Mr. Digby could not interrupt her. He threw himself down 011 a dry piece of sand, and waited; watching her, and watching with a sad sort of pleasure the everlasting rise and breaking of those curling billows. Things spiritual and material get very mixed up in such a mood; and anon the ocean became to Mr. Digby somehow identified with the sea of trouble the tides of which do overflow all this world. The breaking waves were but the constantly occurring and recurring bursts of misfortune and disaster which overtake everybody. Here it is, there it is, it is here again, it is always somewhere; ay, far as the eye can reach. Here is this child, now,-- "Mr. Digby, you are tired--you don't like it--you are just waiting for me," Rotha said suddenly, with delicate good feeling, coming to his side. "I do like it, always. I am not tired, thank you, Rotha." "But you are not taking pleasure in it now," she said gently. "No. I was thinking, how full the world is of trouble." "Why should you think that just now? You had better think, how full it is of pleasure. It's as full--it seems to me as full--as the very sea itself." "Does your life have so much pleasure?" "To-day--" said the girl, with a rapt look out to sea. "And yet Rotha, it is for you I am troubled." "For me!" she said with a surprised look at him. "Yes. Suppose you sit down here for a few minutes, and let me talk to you." "I don't want to talk about trouble just now," she said; sitting down however as he bade her. "I am very sorry to talk about it now, or at any time; but I must. Can you bear trouble, Rotha?" There was something tender and grave and sympathizing in his look and tone, which somehow made the girl's heart beat quicker. That there was real gravity of tidings beneath such a manner, she felt intuitively; though she strove not to believe it. "I don't know,--" she said in answer to his question. "I _have_ borne it." "This is more than you have borne yet." "I had a father, once, Mr. Digby,--" she said with a curious self- restraint that did not lack dignity.