She reappeared almost at once, holding something tightly clenched in
her right hand. She showed it to him shyly.
"It is for you, please," she said.
It was a silver locket, and inside was a little picture of herself.
Aynesworth stooped down and kissed her. He had had as many presents in
his life as most men, but never an offering which came to him quite
like that! They stood still for a moment, and he held out her hands.
Already the morning was astir. The seagulls were wheeling,
white-winged and noiseless, above their heads; the air was fragrant
with the scent of cottage flowers. Like a low, sweet undernote, the
sea came rolling in upon the firm sands--out to the west it stretched
like a sheet of softly swaying inland water. For those few moments
there seemed no note of discord--and then the harsh whistle of an
approaching train! They took hold of hands and ran.
It was, perhaps, as well that their farewells were cut short. There
was scarcely time for more than a few hurried words before the train
moved out from the queer little station, and with his head out of the
window, Aynesworth waved his hand to the black-frocked child with her
pale, eager face already stained with tears--a lone, strange little
figure, full of a sort of plaintive grace as she stood there, against
a background of milk cans, waving a crumpled handkerchief!
Wingrave, who had been buried in a morning paper, looked up presently.
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