He strolled on along the links, while Alison and Willy ran races on the sands. Evidently the races were warm work, for Alison had dropped her pelisse, and left it on the grassy ledge where the links break into the shore. Herries sat down beside it, in the sun. He slipped a half-frozen hand beneath its folds; it was still warm from her wearing, and a curious emotion thrilled him at the contact, as though his blood ran warmer. Presently Alison came herself to where he sat, glowing from her run—panting, rosy, happy. Heavens! what a breath of life—young life—the creature brought along with her. Her curls were blown about by the wind; her eyes were bright—they had the wide-open, innocent look of a child’s. Herries looked at her, and a terrible ache of longing took hold of him—whether it was for her, or just for what she stood for, of all that was lacking in his own life—he could not tell. It is very difficult to say when, to a nature of Herries’s reserve, his critical hesitancy and profound fastidiousness—the divine moment comes, and the proud man’s approval first melts into the tenderness of passion. But with Herries, I rather think it was then—on that sunny morning on the sandy links—when Alison stood before him, with the sea behind her, and the ribbon falling from her loosened curls. True, all that he said was, pointing with an instructive arm,— ’That is the Berwick road, Miss Graham. And over there, that odd-shaped hill you see—that is North Berwick Law.’ But there, again, was the nature of the man; once a feeling had him, it then became too inward for common recognition, and far too sacred for speech. After that, they retraced their steps, and Herries, who felt somehow that he had been erring on the side of sentimentality, instituted a thorough and improving examination of the antiquities of Prestonpans. Willy, it is true, showed symptoms of rebellion, but Alison, though rather cold and hungry, followed, ready and smiling, with that infinite patience for the foibles of a man, as for the gambols of a child, which comes as naturally to some women—well, as naturally as love itself. They had a very pleasant hour in Isabella’s cottage, as a subsequent reward. They supped broth at the fireside, and got warmed through and through. There was a grand platter of potatoes, boiled in their jackets, so hot that nobody could touch them.