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And Hugh went out alone in the summer dusk.

The night was almost ghostly in its stillness. He went down the winding path that he knew so well without a halt. Far away the light of a steamer travelled over the quiet water. The sea murmured drowsily as the tide rose. It was not quite dark.

Outside her cottage-door he stopped and tapped upon the stone. The door stood open, and as he waited he heard a clear, low whistle behind him on the dunes. She was coming towards him, the great dog Caesar bounding by her side. As she drew near he noticed again how slight she was, and marvelled at her strength.

She reached him in silence. The light was very dim. He put out his hand to her, but somehow he could not utter a word.

“I knew it must be you,” she said. “I–I was waiting for you.”

She put her hand into his; but still the man stood mute. No words would come to him.

She looked at him uncertainly, almost nervously. Then–

“What is it?” she asked, under her breath.

He spoke at last but not to utter the words she expected.

“I haven’t come to say, ‘Thank you,’ Molly,” he said. “I have come to ask why.”

“Oh!” said Molly.

She was startled, confused, almost scared, by the mastery that underlay the gentleness of his tone. He kept her hand in his, standing there, facing her in the dimness; and, cripple as he was, she knew him for a strong man.

“I have come to ask,” he said–“and I mean to know–why yesterday you refused to marry me.”

She made a quick movement. His words astounded her. She felt inclined to run away. But he kept her prisoner.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Molly!” he said half sadly. “You had a reason. What was it.”

She bit her lip. Her eyes were full of sudden tears.

“Tell me!” he said.

And she answered, as if he compelled her:

“It was because–because you don’t love me,” she said with difficulty.

She felt his hand tighten upon hers.

“Ah!” he said. “And that was–the only reason?”

Molly was trembling.

“It was the only reason that mattered,” she said in a choked voice.

He leant towards her in the dusk.

“Molly,” he said. “Molly, I worship you!”

She heard the deep quiver in his voice, and it thrilled her from head to foot. She began to sob, and he drew her towards him.

“Wait!” she said, “Oh, wait! Come inside, and I’ll tell you!”

He went in with her, leaning on her shoulder.

“Sit down!” whispered Molly. “I’m going to tell you something.”

“Don’t cry!” he said gently. “It may be something I know already.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t!” she said with conviction.

She stood before him in the twilight, her hands clasped tightly together.

“Do you remember a girl called Mary Fielding?” she said, with a piteous effort to control her voice. “She used to be the friend of–of–your fiancee, Lady Maud Belville, long ago, before you had your accident.”

He nodded gravely.

“I remember her,” he said.

“I don’t suppose you ever noticed her much,” the girl continued shakily. “She was uninteresting, and always in the background.”

“I should know her anywhere,” said Durant with confidence.

“No, no,” she protested. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. You–you never gave her a second thought, though she–was foolish enough–idiotic enough–to–to care whether you did or not.”

“Was she?” he said softly. “Was she? And was that why she came to live among the sand-dunes and cut off her hair and wore print dresses–and–and made life taste sweet to me again?”

“Ah! You know now!” she said, with a sound that was like laughter through tears.

He held out his arms to her.

“My darling,” he said. “I knew on the first day I saw you here.”

She knelt down beside him with a quick, impulsive movement.

“You–knew!” she gasped incredulously.

He smiled at her with great tenderness.

“I knew,” he said, “and I wondered–how I wondered–what you had come for!”

“I only came to be a friend,” she broke in hastily, “to–to try to help you through your bad time.”

“I guessed it must be that,” he said softly over her bowed head, “when you said ‘No’ to me yesterday.”

“But you didn’t tell me you cared,” protested Molly.

“No,” he said. “I was so horribly afraid that you might take me out of pity, Molly.”

“And I–I wasn’t going to be second fiddle!” said Molly waywardly.

She resisted him a little as he turned her face upwards, but he had his way. There was a quiver of laughter in his voice when he spoke again.

“You could never be that,” he said. “You were made to lead the orchestra. Still, tell me why you did it, darling! Make me understand!”

And Molly yielded at length with her arms about his neck.

“I loved you!” she said passionately. “I loved you!”