"I have to say, Winifred, that the man does not live and never has lived," said I, with suppressed vehemence, "who loved a woman as I love you."

"Oh, sir! Oh, Henry!" returned Winifred, trembling, then standing still and whiter than the moon.

"And the reason why no man has ever loved a woman as I love you, Winifred, is because your match, or anything like your match, has never trod the earth before."

"Oh, Henry, my dear Henry, you must not say such things to me, your poor Winifred!"

"But that isn't all that I swore I'd say to you, Winifred."

Don't say any more - not to-night, not to-night."

"What I swore I would ask you, Winifred, is this, Will you be Henry's wife?"

• . • • •

"What changes have come upon us both, Henry, since that childish betrothal on the sands!"

"Happy changes for one of the child-lovers," I said - "happy changes for the one who was then a lonely cripple shut out from all sympathy save that which the other child-lover could give."

"And yet you then seemed happy, Henry - - happy with Winnie to help you up the gangways. And how happy Winnie was! But now the child-lover is a cripple no longer: he is very, very strong - he is so strong that he could carry Winnie up the gangways in his arms, I think."

• • • • •

I wonder what words could render that love-dream on the dear silvered sands, with the moon overhead, the dark, shadowy cliffs and the old church on one side, and the North Sea murmuring a love-chime on the other!

Suffice it to record that Winifred, with a throb in her throat (a throb that prevented her from pronouncing her n's with the clarity that some might have desired) said "cer-tumly" again to Henry's suit - "Certumly, if in a year's time you seek me out in the mountains, and your eyes and voice show that prosperity has not spoiled you, but that you are indeed my Henry.

"What a beautiful world it is," said she, in a half whisper, as we were about to part at the cottage door, for I had refused to leave her on the sands or even at the garden gate. "I should like to live for ever," she whispered; "shouldn't you, Henry?"

"Well, that all depends upon the person I lived with. For instance, I shouldn't care to live for ever with Widow Shales, the pale-faced tailoress, nor yet with her humpbacked son, whose hump was such a constant source of wistful wonder and solicitude to you as a child."

She gave a merry little laugh of reminiscence. Then she said, "But you could live with me for ever, Henry?" plucking a leaf from the grape-vine on the wall and putting it between her teeth.

"For ever and ever, Winifred."

"You ought to marry a great English lady, dear, and I'm only a poor girl - just Winifred," she continued.

"Just Winifred"

"Just Winifred," I said, taking her hand, and preventing her from lifting the catch.

"I've lived," said she, "in a little cottage like this with my aunt and Miss Dalrymple, and done everything."

"Everything's a big word, Winifred. What may everything include in your case?"

"Include!" said Winifred. "Oh, everything, housekeeping, and-------"

"Housekeeping!" said I. "Racing the winds with Rhona Boswell and other gipsy children up and down Snowdon - that's been your housekeeping."

"Cooking," said Winifred, maintaining her point.

"Oh, what a fib, Winifred! These sunburnt fingers may have picked wild fruits, but they have never made a pie in their lives."

"Never made a pie! I make beautiful pies and things; and when we're married I'll make your pies - may I, instead of a conceited man-cook?"

"No, Winifred; never make a pie or do a bit of cooking in my house, I charge you."

"Oh, why not?" said Winifred, a shade of disappointment overspreading her face. "I suppose it's unladylike to cook."

"Because," said I, "once let me taste something made by these tanned fingers, and how could I ever afterwards eat anything made by a man-cook, conceited or modest? I should say to that poor cook, 'where is the Winifred flavour, cook? I don't taste those tanned fingers here.' And then, suppose you were to die first, Winifred, why, I should have to starve, just for want of a little Winifred flavour in the pie-crust. Now, I don't want to starve, and you sha'n't cook."

"Oh, Hal, you dear, dear fellow!" shrieked Winifred, in an ecstasy of delight at this nonsense. Then her deep love overpowered her quite, and she said, her eyes suffused with tears, "Henry, you can't think how I love you. I'm sure I couldn't live even in heaven without you."

Then came the shadow of a lich-owl as it whisked past us towards the apple-trees.

"Why, you'd be obliged to live without me, Winifred, if I were still at Raxton."

"No," said she, "I'm quite sure I couldn't. I should have to come in the winds and play round you on the sands. I should have to peep over the clouds and watch you. I should have to follow you about wherever you went. I should have to beset you till you said, 'bother, Winnie! I wish she'd keep in heaven.' "

I passed along that same road where, as a crippled child, I had hobbled on that bright afternoon when love was first revealed to me. Ah, what a different love was this which was firing my blood and making dizzy my brain! That child-love had softened my heart in its deep distress, and widened my soul. This new and mighty passion in whose grasp I was, this irresistible power that had seized and possessed my entire being, wrought my soul in quite a different sort, concentrating and narrowing my horizon till the human life outside the circle of our love seemed far, far away, as though I were gazing through the wrong end of a telescope. I had learned that he who truly loves is indeed born again, becomes a new and a different man.