At the end of a quarter of an hour--which had seemed to her like two quarters--she gave it up. Crossing the road to the chapel gate, she went in, traversed the ruins to the opposite corner to the Friar's Keep, and stood looking out to sea. Mary had another vexation on her mind that night: earlier in the day a report had reached her in a letter that her recreant lover, William Blake-Gordon, was engaged again: So soon!--so soon! Whether it was true, she knew not: it could not, either way, make much difference to the pain that filled her heart: but the report wrung it cruelly. The other name, mentioned in connection with his, was Agatha Mountsorrel's; her own close friend of former days. She knew that she ought not to feel this bitter pain, this wild jealousy; that, once he was lost to her, she should have put him out of her mind for good. Ah, it is all very well for the wise to lay down laws, to say this is wrong and the other is right and you must act accordingly! human nature is but frail, and the heart must be true to itself. Some slight movement caught her attention below. It was low water, and the strip of beach underneath was free. Mary leaned over to look. But she could not see: the shelving-out rocks hid the path as she stood. In the deep silence of the night, she thought she could distinguish whispering voices, and she waited until their owners should have passed a little farther on, where a bend inward of the rocks allowed a view to be obtained. It brought the greatest vexation of all! A tall fine form came into sight too tall, too fine, to be any but Harry Castlemaine's. His arm was around the waist of some young girl; his head was turned to her, and they were conversing eagerly. She wore a dark cloak, its hood drawn up over her head: Mary could not see her face, for their backs were towards her, but she fancied it was Jane Hallet. They passed away under the Nunnery, as if returning to the village, and were lost to sight and hearing. Only at quite low water was that narrow strip passable.