Manor be to me if I did not love the man?and how could I ever love Mr. Cowley ? "

"And why not?"

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66

Augusta!" said Stella revolted.

"And

Greyhurst Manor would be a lovely home whatever the man," continued Augusta, not noticing that interjection and pursuing her theme with her most provoking air of genial good sense, of heartless reasonableness. if you did not begin with all that tremendous amount of nonsense which some girls think necessary, you would end in the placid contentment which comes from habit, ease of position and mutual respect. And I assure you, Stella child, habit and respect and enough money for all your wants and a good social position and a nice house, and all that kind of thing, go farther to make a happy marriage than the romantic enthusiasm and blind adoration of the phantom which goes by the name of love. If you could bring yourself to marry Valentine Cowley you would be much happie than you are now, or perhaps ever will be. But if you cannot," she went on to say, stopping Stella as she was about to speak; "at least do not let him believe that you will. Father or not, do not be induced to play with him now only to disappoint him in the end."

"How impossible it is to do right!" said Stella with a quick sigh of impatience. "We are taught from our childhood to obey our parents as the first duty in life, for in obeying them we are obeying God-and when we are older, if we do as they tell us, we do wrong."

"Because we always do wrong when we make a fetish for ourselves, which we worship

beyond reason; said Augusta. "The only

safe guide in life is common sense; and that is the rarest of all. Not the finest virtue in the world-not the most necessary-can stand the strain of excess; and even obedience to parents can be carried to excess-as in this matter of yours with Valentine Cowley. So now, after this lecture let us go out. It is a sin to waste the sunshine."

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CHAPTER VI.

THE LOVER'S LEAP.

AT every seaside place, where there are cliffs and rocks worthy of the name, are sure to be found a Smuggler's Leap and a Smuggler's Cave, round which are gathered fierce traditions having still the power to stir the blood and rouse the imagination. Sometimes there is a Lover's Leap instead of the Smuggler's, where tragedy takes the place of romantic crime and the sympathy is all on the side of the sufferer. At St. Ann's there was of course the due amount of local interest and tradition; for the coast was wild and rock-bound; and in the old days of high duties and strict Protection it had been famous for the boldness of its lawbreakers and the success with which their daring ventures had been made. Shreds and ends of fine Flanders lace were still among the

cottage heirlooms of the fisher folk; here a louis d'or and there a Spanish doubloon was hung against the walls or laid in the bowl of the quaint Venetian vase with the twisted threads of white run through the stem; and the odour of cognac and schiedam seemed to linger yet in the air. But all these stirring times were past now-put to death by the prosaic facts of free-trade and the coastguard; and only memories and traditions remained of this bold Will Watch, or that more terrible Paul Jonesonly here and there a blood-stained grave marked the last resting-place and crystallized the history of some wild desperado whom nature had designed for a hero and of whom fate had made a ruffian and fortune an outlaw. Still, all these memories and old-world stories gave a kind of historical point and meaning to places, which surrounded them with human interest and lifted them into the regions of poetry and

romance.

The most beautiful of all these places at St. Ann's was the Lover's Leap; and the story was as pathetic as the place was picturesque. It was the old, old story of loving not wisely but too well; of parental cold-blooded denial and youthful hot-headed passion; of love strong as death and greater than fear; of the youth

who jumped into the sea from his pursuers and was saved; of the maid who flung herself in after him in despair, and was lost. And partly because she was love-lorn in her own life, and naturally therefore given to sentimental sympathies, and partly because the spot was so beautiful, Stella's favourite resting-place was on the rocks just below that fatal cliff whence the man had struck out to safety and the girl had sunk down to death.

"How true to life!" she thought sadly, as she sat there in front of the placid sea and under the shadow of the overhanging rocks. How true to her own history! Cyril had struck out into the smooth waters of indifference, where another love would save him; she had gone down like a stone under the black waves of despair whence she should never be rescued by living hand! How true to the difference between man and woman! she thought again, woman-like, heaping on the collective man all that bitterness of blame which is only the other side of individual love. Yes, the strong man struck out and was saved, and the weak woman, who loved him, went down and was lost.

So she sat, mournfully dreaming-her eyes shut as though she were sleeping; while Augusta and her boy, out there in the bright,