recognised its existence. John Penelles, though only a fisher, was a man who had influence and who had saved money. Once when Mr. Tresham had been in a great strait for cash, Penelles, remembering Denas, had cheerfully loaned him a hundred pounds. Elizabeth recollected her father’s anxiety and his relief and gratitude, and a friend who will open, not his heart or his house, but his purse, is a rare good friend, one not to be lightly wronged or lost. Besides these reasons, there were many smaller ones, arising out of petty social likes and dislikes and jealousies, which made Miss Tresham determined to keep Denas Penelles precisely in the position to which she had at first admitted her––that of a friend and companion.

To visitors she often used the adjective “humble” before the noun “friend,” glossing it with a somewhat exaggerated account of Denas and their relationship, but with Denas herself she never thought of such qualification. Denas had all the native independence of her class––the fisher class, who neither sow nor reap, but take their living direct from the hand of God. She was proud of her father, and proud of his boats, and proud of his skill in managing them. She said, whenever she spoke 13 of him: “My father is an upright man. He is a fine sailor and a lucky fisher. Every one trusts my father. Every one honours him.”

Of course Denas recognised the differences in her friend’s life and her own. Mr. Tresham’s old stone mansion was large and lofty. It had fine gardens, and it had been well furnished from the wreck of the London house. Elizabeth played on the harp and piano in a pretty, fashionable way, and she had jewelry, and silk dresses, and many adornments quite outside of the power of Denas to obtain. But Denas never envied her these things. She looked on them as the accidentals of a certain station, and God had not put her in that station. In her own she had the very best of all that belonged to it. And as far as personal adornment went, she was neither vain nor envious. Her dark-blue merino dress and her wide straw hat satisfied her ideas of propriety and beauty. A shell comb in her fair hair and a few white hyacinths at her throat were all the ornaments she desired. So dressed that Easter Eve, she had stood a moment with her hat in her hand before her mother, and asked, with a merry little movement of her eyes and head, “what she thought of her?” and Joan Penelles had told her child promptly:

“You be sweet as blossoms, Denas.”

There was an engagement between her and Elizabeth to adorn the altar for the Resurrection Service, and it was mainly this duty which had delayed her until John Penelles began to worry about her long absence. He did not ask himself why he had all in 14 a moment thought of Roland Tresham and felt a shiver of apprehension. He was not accustomed to reason about his feelings, it was so much easier to go to Joan with them. But this evening Joan did not quite satisfy him. He drank his tea and ate plentifully of his favourite pie, of fresh fish and cream and young parsley, and then said:

“Joan, my dear, I have an over-mind to light my pipe and saunter up the cliff-breast. I may meet Denas.”

“I wish you wouldn’t go, father. It do look as if you had lost trust in Denas––misdoubting one’s own is a whist poor business and not worth the following.”

“Aw, my dear, I just want to talk a few words to her quiet-like. If Denas is companying with Roland Tresham she oughtn’t to do it, and I must tell her so, that I must. My dear girl, right is right in the devil’s teeth.”

He said the words so sternly that they seemed to make a gloom in the cottage, but Joan’s cheerful laugh cleared it away. “You be such a dear, good, careful father, John,” she said, as she tucked in with a caressing movement the long ends of his kerchief. “I was only thinking that if it be good to watch, it is far better to trust––there then, isn’t it, father?”

“Why, my dear, I’ll watch first and I’ll trust after––that’s right enough, isn’t it, Joan?”

Joan sighed and smiled, and Penelles, with his pipe in his mouth, turned his face landward. Joan thought a moment and then called to him:

“Father! Paul Tynton is very bad to-day. He 15 was taken ill when the moon was three days old; men die who sicken on that day. Hadn’t you better call and speak a word with him? He is in your class, you know.”

“He was taken when the moon was four days old; he’ll have a hard little time, but he’ll get up again.”

There was nothing else she could think of, and she knit her brows and turned in to her house duties. Joan did not want any meeting between her husband and Roland Tresham. She did not want anything to occur which would interfere with Denas visiting Miss Tresham, for these visits were a source of great pleasure to Denas and great pride to herself. And Joan could not believe that there was any danger to be feared from Roland; Denas had known him for two years and nothing evil had yet happened. If Roland had said one wrong word to Denas, Joan was sure her child would have told her.

While she was thinking of these things, John Penelles went slowly up the winding path that led to the top of the cliff. It was sweet and bright on either hand with the fragile, delicate flowers of early spring. He stopped frequently to look at them, and he longed to touch them, to hold them in his palm, to put them against his lips. But he looked at his big, hard hands, and then at the flowers, and so, shaking his head, walked on. The blackbird was piping and the missel-thrush singing in one or two of her seven languages, and John felt the spring joy stirring in his own heart to melody. He sat in the singing-pew at St. Penfer Chapel, and he had a noble voice, so he shook the ashes out of his pipe, 16 and clasping his hands behind his back was just going to give the blackbirds and thrushes his evening song, when he heard the rippling laugh of Denas a little ahead of him.

He told himself in a moment that it was not her usual laugh. He could not for his life have defined the difference, but there it was. Before he saw her he knew that Roland Tresham was with her, and in a moment or two they came suddenly within his vision. Denas was walking a little straighter than usual, and Roland was bending toward her. He was gay, laughing, finely dressed; he was doing his best to attract the girl who walked so proudly, so apart, and yet so happily beside him. Penelles went forward to meet them. As they approached Denas smiled, and the young man called out:

“Hello, Penelles! How do you do? And what’s the news? And how is the fishing? I was just bringing Denas home––and hoping to see you.”

“Aw, then, sir, you can see for yourself how I be, and the news be none, and the fishing be plenty.”

“St. Penfer harbour is not much of a place, Penelles. I was just telling Denas about London.”

“St. Penfer be a hard little place, but it do give us a living, sir; a honest living, thank God! Come, Denas, my dear.”

As he spoke he gently took the girl’s hand, and with a perfectly civil “Good-evening, sir,” turned with her homeward.

“Too fast, Penelles; I am going with you.”

“Much obliged; not to-night, sir. It be getting late. Say good-evening, Denas.”

There was something so final about the man’s manner that Roland was compelled to accept the dismissal, but it deeply offended him, and the unreasonable anger opened the door for evil thoughts; and evil thoughts––having a cursed and powerful vitality––immediately began to take form and to make plans for their active gratification. Denas walked silently down the narrow path before her father. He