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“With pleasure,” he said courteously, “if the path is easy and the distance not too great for my powers.”

“It is quite close,” she said readily, “hardly a stone’s throw from here–a little wooden cottage–the first you come to.”

“And you live quite alone?” Durant said.

“I like it best,” she assured him.

“Will you tell me your name?” he asked.

“My name is Molly,” she answered quietly.

“Nothing else?” said Durant with a puzzled frown.

“Nothing else, sir,” she said, with her air of womanly dignity.

He made no outward comment, but inwardly he wondered. Was this odd little, dark-haired creature some nameless waif of the sea brought up on the charity of the fisher-folk, he asked himself.

She stood aside for him to pass, drawing Caesar out of his way. He stopped a moment to pat the dog’s head. And so standing, leaning upon his crutches, he suddenly and keenly looked into the olive-tinted face that the sunbonnet shadowed.

“Sorry for me, eh?” he said, and he uttered a laugh that was short and very bitter.

She bent down over the dog.

“Yes, I am sorry,” she said, almost under her breath.

Bending lower, she picked up something that lay on the ground between them.

“You dropped this,” she said.

He took it from her with a grim hardening of the mouth. It was the letter he had received from his fiancee a year ago. But his eyes never left the face of the girl before him.

“I wonder–” he said abruptly, and stopped.

There was a pause. The girl waited, her hand nervously caressing the Newfoundland’s curls. She did not raise her eyes, but the lids fluttered strangely.

“I wonder,” Durant said, and his voice was suddenly kind, “if I might ask you to do something for me.”

She gave him a swift glance.

“Please do!” she murmured.

“This letter,” he said, and he held it out to her.

“I should like it torn up–very small.”

She took the envelope and hesitated. Durant was watching her. There was unmistakable mastery in his eyes.

“Go on!” he said briefly.

And with a quick, startled movement, she obeyed. The letter fluttered around them both in tiny fragments. Hugh Durant looked on with a hard, impassive face, as he might have looked on at an execution.

The girl’s hands were shaking. She glanced at him once or twice uncertainly.

When the work of destruction was accomplished she made him a nervous curtsey and turned to go.

Durant’s face softened a second time into a smile.

“Thank you–Molly,” he said, and he put his hand to his hat though she was not looking at him.

And afterwards he stood among the fragments of his letter and watched till both the girl and the dog were out of sight.

Twenty-four hours later Hugh Durant stood on the sandy shore and tapped with his crutch on the large, flat stone that was set for a step on the threshold of the little, wooden cottage behind the sand dunes.

He had reached the place with much difficulty, persevering with a doggedness characteristic of him; and there were great drops on his forehead though the afternoon was cloudy and cool.

A quick step sounded in answer to his summons, and in a moment his hostess appeared at the open door.

“Why didn’t you come straight in?” she said hospitably.

She was dressed in lilac print. Her sleeves were turned up to the elbows, and she wore a big apron with a bib. He noticed that her feet were no longer bare.

He took off his hat as he answered.

“Perhaps I might have been tempted to do so,” he said, “if I had felt equal to mounting the step without assistance.”

“Oh!” She pulled down her sleeves hastily. “Will you let me help you?” she suggested shyly.

Durant’s eyes were slightly drawn with pain. Nevertheless they were very friendly as he made reply.

“Do you think you can?” he said.

She took his hat from him with an anxious smile, and then the crutch that he held towards her.

“Tell me exactly what to do!” she said in her sweet, low voice. “I am very strong.”