something to say to her, but as he did not speak she commenced the ascent of the stiff cliff path. He started after her, but the climb took all his attention, and she was soon far ahead. When he reached the top she was standing near the edge looking around her.

“This is my last look,” she said as he reached her side. Her hand indicated the line of savage cliffs, the tossing sea, the screaming birds, the moors beyond the rocks.

“Perhaps you will come back here again some day,” he replied.

She made no answer. He drew closer, so close that she shrank back and turned away.

“I must go now,” she hurriedly said.

“Stay, Sisily,” he said. “I want to speak to you. It may be the final opportunity—the last time we shall be alone together here.”

She hesitated, walking with slower steps and then stopping. As he did not speak she broke the silence in a low tone—

“What do you wish to say to me?”

“Are you sorry you are leaving Cornwall?” he hesitatingly began.

She made a slight indifferent gesture. “Yes, but it does not matter. Mother is dead, and my father does not care for me.” She flushed a deep red and hastily added, “No one will miss me. I am so alone.”

“You are not alone!” he impetuously exclaimed—“I love you, Sisily—that is what I wished to say. I came here to tell you.”

He caught a swift fleeting glance from her dark eyes, immediately veiled.

“Do you really mean what you say?” she replied, a little unsteadily.

“Yes, Sisily. I have loved you ever since I first met you,” he replied. “And, since then, I have loved you more and more.”

“Oh, why have you told me this now?” she exclaimed. “You think I am lonely, and you are sorry for me. I cannot stay longer. Aunt will be waiting for me.”

He sprang before her in the narrow path.

“You must hear what I have to say before you go,” he said curtly. “We are not likely to meet again for some time if we part now. I intend to leave England.”

She looked at him at those words, but he was at a loss to divine the meaning of the look.

“You are leaving England?” A quick ear would have caught a strange note in her soft voice. “Oh, but you cannot—you have responsibilities.”

“Are you thinking of the title, and your father’s money?” he observed, glancing at her curiously. “What do you know about it, Sisily?”

“I have heard of nothing but the title ever since I can remember,” she replied.

“I learnt for the first time this afternoon that I was brought down here to rob you,” he said gloomily.

“I am glad for your sake if you are to have it—the money,” she simply replied.

He answered with a bitter, almost vengeful aspect.

“I would not take the money or the title, if they ever came to me. They should be yours. I will show them. I will let them know that they cannot do what they like with me.” He brought out this obscure threat in a savage voice. “If I had only known—if I had guessed that your father—” He ceased abruptly, with a covert glance, like one fearing he had said too much.

She kept her eyes fixed on the lengthening shadows around the rocks.

“Do not take it so much to heart,” she timidly counselled. “It is nothing to me—the title or the money. They made my mother’s life a misery. My father was always cruel to her because of them, I do not know why. It is in his nature to be cruel, I think. He has a heart of granite, like these rocks. I hate him!” She brought out the last words in a sudden burst of passion which startled him.

“What nonsense it all is!” he exclaimed, suddenly changing his tone. “All this talk about a title which may never be revived. Let them have it between them, and the money too. Sisily, I love you, dear, love you better than all the titles and money in the world. I am not worthy of you, but I will try to be. Let us go Sway and start life … just our two selves.”

“I cannot.” She stood in front of him with downcast gaze, and then raised her eyes to his.

Had he been as experienced in the ways of her sex as he believed himself to be, he would have read more in her elusive glance than her words.

“You may be sorry if you do not,” he said, with a sudden access of male brutality. “There are reasons—reasons I cannot explain to you—”

“Even if there are I cannot do what you ask,” she replied. Her face was still averted, but her voice was steady.

“Then do you want to go with Aunt to London?” he persisted, trying to catch a glimpse of her hidden face.

She shook her head.

“Or to stay with your father?”

“No!” There was a strange intense note in the brief word.

“Then come with me, Sisily. I love you more than all the world. We have nobody to please except our two selves.”

“You have your duty to your father to consider.”

“Let us leave him out of the question,” said the young man hurriedly. “He is as selfish and heartless as—his brother. I tell you again, I’ll have nothing to do with this title or your father’s money. I will make my own way with you by my side. I have a friend in London who would be only too glad to receive you until we could be married. You are leaving your home to-night, and you are as free as air to choose. Will you come?”

“Of course,” he began again, in a different tone, as she still kept silent, “it may be that I have misunderstood. I thought that you had learnt to care for me. But if you dislike me—”

“Do not say that,” she replied, turning a deeply wounded face towards him. “It is not that—do not think so. You have been kind and good to me, and I—I shall never forget you. But I—I have a contempt for myself.”

“I have a contempt for myself also after this afternoon,” he retorted. “Come, Sisily—”

“No, it is impossible. Hark, what was that?” The girl spoke with a sudden uplifting of her head. Above them, from the direction of the house, the sound of a voice was heard.

“It is Aunt calling me,” she said, “I must go. Good-bye.”

“Is it good-bye, then?”

“It must be. But I shall often think of you.”

He had the unforgettable sensation of two soft burning lips touching the hand which hung at his side, and turned swiftly—but too late. She was speeding along the rocky pathway which led to the house.

“Wait, Sisily!” he cried.

A seabird’s mournful cry was the only answer. He glanced irresolutely towards the path, and then retraced his steps towards the edge of the cliffs.

A cold sun dipped suddenly, as though pulled down by a stealthy invisible hand. The twilight deepened, and in the lengthening shadows the rocks assumed crouching menacing shapes which seemed to watch the solitary figure standing near the edge, lost in thought.