As he thus mused and was unhappy, maundering over the past, he observed a girl engaged on the shore picking up and examining pebbles. She kept close to the line of the retreating tide, so as to be able to select amongst the stones whilst they were wet. Some of these she cast aside after a cursory glance; over others she hesitated, holding them to the sun, and then dipping them again in a hissing wavelet that swept to her feet. A few she retained and deposited in a pouch slung at her waist. As she drew nearer, something in her appearance, something in her manner, something in her gesture arrested, then riveted the attention of Mr. Holwood, and starting up and advancing towards her he gasped: 'Gods of Olympus! Oh! if it should be _her_ child and _mine_!' CHAPTER IX SEEN THROUGH The girl was Winefred. Engaged in the selection of pebbles, she did not observe the approach of Mr. Holwood; and the rush of the inflowing wave, and the under rattle of the retreat, as the water drew the shingle after it, served to drown the footfall. When he addressed her, she was taken by surprise, and started. He saw before him a tall, handsome girl, flushed with her walk, with dark hair slightly dispersed by the wind from the sea, with hale cheeks, brown, agate-like, honest eyes, fresh flexible lips, and a well-moulded lower jaw and chin. 'Why are you picking and choosing among the stones?' he asked. 'Please, sir, I be looking for chalcedony.' 'You should say _I am_ and not _I be_. But let that pass. Chalcedony――――' 'And jasper.' 'And jasper; what do you know about them? Are you deficient in grammar and a proficient in mineralogy?' Winefred looked at him with an odd expression of perplexity and humour in her brown eyes and a dimple forming in one cheek. Now he saw that she had the eyes and features of Jane, but there was in her face something more――a reminiscence of a dearly loved and lost sister, who had been his companion in boyhood, his _confidante_, but who had died of decline just as she attained the age of this child. 'Tell me, my girl, what is your name?' There was a catch in his voice as he asked the question. 'Winefred.' 'And your surname?' 'Marley. That is what my mother is called.' He paused before speaking again. A warm flow, as from a broken vein, suffused his heart. He would have liked to clasp the child to him and have said, 'I am your father, kiss me, put your arms about me and let me cry.' But he dared not do so. Presently he spoke again. 'Will you sit by me on this rock and tell me about these pebbles? I do not understand. Why do you gather them? What is done with them?' She at once took the place indicated, without shyness, with no awkwardness. But he did not seat himself, he stood leaning against the larger bulk of the chalky mass so that he might study her face as she spoke. 'About these pebbles?' 'Please, sir, they are chalcedony. Sometimes I get moss agates.'