'Aren't we like two children,' he said, his voice, like hers, deepened by feeling, 'two scared, unhappy children, clinging to each other alone in the dark.' So they talked on in subdued voices as people do who are in some holy place, sitting close together, looking out at the starlit sea, darkness and coolness gathering round them, and the grass smelling sweetly after the hot day, and the little waves, such a long way down, lapping lazily along the shingle, till Wemyss said it must be long past bedtime, and she, poor girl, must badly need rest. 'How old are you?' he asked suddenly, turning to her and scrutinising the delicate faint outline of her face against the night. 'Twenty-two,' said Lucy. 'You might just as easily be twelve,' he said, 'except for the sorts of things you say.' 'It's my hair,' said Lucy. 'My father liked--he liked----' 'Don't,' said Wemyss, in his turn taking her hand. 'Don't cry again. Don't cry any more to-night. Come--we'll go in. It's time you were in bed.' And he helped her up, and when they got into the light of the hall he saw that she had, this time, successfully strangled her tears. 'Good-night,' she said, when he had lit her candle for her, 'good-night, and--God bless you.' 'God bless _you_' said Wemyss solemnly, holding her hand in his great warm grip. 'He has,' said Lucy. 'Indeed He has already, in sending me you.' And she smiled up at him. For the first time since he had known her--and he too had the feeling that he had known her ever since he could remember--he saw her smile, and the difference it made to her marred, stained face surprised him. 'Do that again,' he said, staring at her, still holding her hand. 'Do what?' asked Lucy. 'Smile,' said Wemyss. Then she laughed; but the sound of it in the silent, brooding house was shocking. '_Oh_,' she gasped, stopping short, hanging her head appalled by what it had sounded like. 'Remember you're to go to sleep and not think of anything,' Wemyss ordered as she went slowly upstairs. And she did fall asleep at once, exhausted but protected, like some desolate baby that had cried itself sick and now had found its mother. IV All this, however, came to an end next day when towards evening Miss Entwhistle, Lucy's aunt, arrived. Wemyss retired to his hotel again and did not reappear till next morning, giving Lucy time to explain him; but either the aunt was inattentive, as she well might be under the circumstances in which she found herself so suddenly, so lamentably placed, or Lucy's explanations were vague, for Miss Entwhistle took Wemyss for a friend of her dear Jim's, one of her dear, dear brother's many friends, and accepted his services as natural and himself with emotion, warmth, and reminiscences.