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He turned and went swiftly and noiselessly down the road to his boat. The murmur of the sea sounded very far off. Mosey Louis was busy counting out the mackerel, Xavier was dipping up buckets of water and pouring it over the silvery fish. The sun was setting in a bank of purple cloud, and the long black headland to the west cut the golden seas like a wedge of ebony. It was all real and yet unreal. Benjamin went to work mechanically.

Presently Mary Stella came down to her father’s boat. Braithwaite followed slowly, pausing a moment to exchange some banter with saucy Mosey Louis. Benjamin bent lower over his table; now and then he caught the dear tones of Mary Stella’s voice or her laughter at some sally of Pete or Leon. He knew when she went up the road with Braithwaite; he caught the last glimpse of her light dress as she passed out of sight on the cliffs above, but he worked steadily on and gave no sign.

It was late when they finished. The tired French Canadians went quickly off to their beds in the fish-house loft. Benjamin stood by the skids until all was quiet, then he walked down the cove to a rocky point that jutted out into the water. He leaned against a huge boulder and laid his head on his arm, looking up into the dark sky. The stars shone calmly down on his misery; the throbbing sea stretched out before him; its low, murmuring moan seemed to be the inarticulate voice of his pain.

The air was close and oppressive; fitful flashes of heat lightning shimmered here and there over the heavy banks of cloud on the horizon; little wavelets sobbed at the base of the rocks.

When Benjamin lifted his head he saw Frank Braithwaite standing between him and the luminous water. He took a step forward, and they came face to face as Braithwaite turned with a start.

Benjamin clenched his hands and fought down a hideous temptation to thrust his rival off the rock.

“I saw you today,” he said in a low, intense tone. “What do you think of yourself, coming down here to steal the girl I loved from me? Weren’t there enough girls where you came from to choose among? I hate you. I’d kill you–“

“Selby, stop! You don’t know what you are saying. If I have wronged you, I swear I did it unintentionally. I loved Stella from the first–who could help it? But I thought she was virtually bound to you, and I did not try to win her away. You don’t know what it cost me to remain passive. I know that you have always distrusted me, but hitherto you have had no reason to. But today I found that she was free–that she did not care for you! And I found–or thought I found–that there was a chance for me. I took it. I forgot everything else then.”

“So she loves you?” said Benjamin dully.

“Yes,” said Braithwaite softly.

Benjamin turned on him with sudden passion.

“I hate you–and I am the most miserable wretch alive, but if she is happy, it is no matter about me. You’ve won easily what I’ve slaved and toiled all my life for. You won’t value it as I’d have done–but if you make her happy, nothing else matters. I’ve only one favour to ask of you. Don’t let her come to the shore after this. I can’t stand it.”

August throbbed and burned itself out. Affairs along shore continued as usual. Benjamin shut his sorrow up in himself and gave no outward sign of suffering. As if to mock him, the season was one of phenomenal prosperity; it was a “mackerel year” to be dated from. He worked hard and unceasingly, sparing himself in no way.

Braithwaite seldom came to the shore now. Mary Stella never. Mr. Murray had tried to speak of the matter, but Benjamin would not let him.