But the mouth-organ boy! Long ago, when she couldn't see him, she had heard him playing in the tree-tops. It was something like that now. Since she had left England, his letters had followed her. Sometimes she hadn't answered them. Sometimes she had answered them casually. Sometimes she had had fits of contrition and had written him volumes--compact histories of her thoughts and doings. It made no difference whether she was punctual or neglectful; like a familiar friend in unfamiliar places, his handwriting was always ahead of her travels, waiting to greet her. “What does he say?” Peter would ask her. Then she would read him carefully edited extracts--nice polite information, entirely innocuous. Peter hadn't guessed. He mustn't. How preposterous it had seemed when Harry had first written her that he loved her! She hadn't regarded him in the aspect of a lover--didn't want to. It had seemed almost treachery to Peter. But now----. Now it didn't seem at all preposterous--only wonderful, and true, and puzzling. How long ago was it? Eight months since he had told her. She had been a child then--seventeen, with cornflower eyes and blowy daffodil hair. The knowledge that she was loved had startled her into womanhood. She ought to be getting back. But Peter, Peter from whom she had no secrets, didn't know. She dared not tell him--and Harry was there. Peter had given her so much--this year of romance; and yet, with all his giving----. He might give her his whole life; he couldn't give her this different thing that Harry offered. She rose to go. Her attention was arrested. It couldn't be! Gazing sheer down, she leant out across the broken parapet. In the racing tide, through its treacherous whirlpools, a man was swimming. She could see his reddish hair and beard shine as they caught the sunset. As he lunged forward, they sank beneath the surface. She held her breath. He was keeping near in to the rocks--so near that, had she dropped a stone, it would have struck him. With all his fighting, he was making little progress. It was too far to the town to run for help--moreover, none of the fishing-boats ever ventured there. She wanted to cry out encouragement; she feared to distract him from his effort. Now, in rounding a bend, he was lost to sight. Ah! There he was again. She saw where he was going--to the weather-beaten steps which wound down the precipice. He stretched out his hand and pulled himself up, dragging his body across the rocks like a fly which had been all but drowned. He stood up, white and magnificent, squeezing the water from his beard and hair. As he commenced to climb the stair in the cliff-front, he vanished. She couldn't go now. Her curiosity was roused. What kind of a man could be so foolhardy as to do a thing like that? Drawing back into the shadow of the tower, she waited.