By eventide the water’s edge would be as far out as it had been the preceding night, but it would take some time for that to come, and Polly promised herself a whole afternoon under the shelter of the seaweed-covered rock. It was strange to feel herself free. All the past year her days had been set to match her mother’s wishes, and sweet as this office of love had been, there was no doubt the girl needed a change altogether.
She could not have found a place better calculated to do her good than this wild, little coasting village, and Grace’s quick thought had been a very happy one.
It was not possible to restore her girlhood’s buoyancy in full, for whatever might have come, her life had passed through such dark shadows these many months that the trace of them would never wholly pass away; but assuredly even this short sojourn in fresh scenes, this break in her arduous and thoughtful existence, had done her good already. She forgot all those stinging, hurtful things that had driven her from home, as she sat and watched the rolling sea, and heard the thunder of the foam-decked waves break on the wet beach.
“It’s just lovely!” she said to herself. “How I wish Grace had come with me! When will she come? She said in a day or two. I must write to her to-night, and tell her to hurry up this day or two; I want her. How funny it is, and sad, too, that I should find a stranger so much sweeter, and kinder, and necessary to me than my own sisters. Grace is more than my friend, she is my comfort; yes, I want her very badly. Not that I am lonely, though. I feel quite, quite happy here.”
Forgetful of her promise to Mrs. Blaine, Polly spent the entire afternoon out of the house.
Gradually and gradually the waves receded, till there was a wide stretch of rock, and beach, and damp sand between the sea and herself.
The wind seemed to die down as the tide went out, and the rain became less fierce and settled into a thin drizzle.
Polly emerged from her cave, and picking up her skirts, went fleetly over the slippery rocks, down once more to the water’s edge.
She had discarded her old ulster and hat, and had left them tucked away in a corner of her late shelter.
She was not afraid of losing them, for, as she said to herself with a laugh, “he or she who would steal my ulster would undoubtedly steal trash; while as for my hat, well, the less said about that hat the better.”