But there was no conversation this time about Geoffrey Trethick, for Bess stayed in the room, and then followed Rhoda out on to the cliff path when she left. "Why, Bessie," said the visitor, smiling, "I have hardly seen you since that day when those mad people behaved so ill." "I very seldom go into the town now, miss," said Bess, whose colour came as she recalled the conclusion of that scene. "It's very sad," continued Rhoda, "that the people should be so ignorant. Well, good-by, Bessie," she continued, holding out her hand, "you will not ill-wish me?" "No," said Bessie, softly, as she watched the tall, well-dressed, graceful figure slowly receding. "No, I will not ill-wish you; but there are times when I feel as if I must hate you for being what you are." She let Rhoda go on till the fluttering of her dress in the sea-breeze was seen no more, and then, moved by some strange impulse, she followed, avoiding the track; and, active and quick as one of the half-wild sheep of the district, she climbed up on to the rugged down above the cliff path, and kept on gazing below at Rhoda from time to time. She went on nearly parallel with her for a quarter of a mile or so, and then stood motionless for a time, gazing down, before, with a weary wail of misery, she threw herself amidst the heather, her face upon one outstretched arm, whose fingers clutched and tore at the tough plants and grass, while her whole frame quivered with her passionate sobs. "Bess!" At the sound of that hoarse voice she started up into a sitting position, but shrank away as she gazed up into her father's fierce, rugged face. The old man was down on one knee beside her, and his gnarled and knotted hand was pointing in the direction of the cliff path a hundred feet below. "Is--is it come to this, Bess?" he said. "What--what, father?" she cried, catching at his hand; but she missed it, and he gripped her arm. "Is that smooth, good-looking villain thy lover, too?" he said, in a vindictive whisper. "Oh! no, no, no, father," she gasped. "I knew it would come to it," he cried. "Curse him! I'll crush his false head again the rocks." "Are you mad, father?" she whispered, throwing her arms round him. "Mad? No," he cried; "but do you think I'm blind as well as old? Bess," he continued, "I wish before his gashly face had darkened our door--" "Oh father, father, dear father," she moaned--and she crept closer and closer, till her arms were round his neck, and her head in his breast; "kill me, but don't hurt him." "Then he has been trifling with thee, girl? I knowed it; I was sure it would come." "No, no, no," moaned Bess; "he never said word to me but what you might hear." "Is--is this gawspel, Bess?" cried the old man, dragging up her convulsed and tearful face, and gazing in her wistful dark eyes.