“All for love—all for love!” she cried.
Harold smiled. He remembered having had brought under his notice a toy nightingale that imitated the song of the nightingale so closely that the Jew dealer, who wanted to sell the thing, declared that no one on earth could tell the difference between the two.
The volubility of Brian in declaring that he would do anything out of love for Miss Avon was amazing. He went down the cliff face to bring the boats round to the regular moorings, promising to be at the Castle in half an hour to receive Miss Avon’s letter to be put into her father’s hand at his hour of rising.
By the time Miss Avon and Harold had walked to the Castle with Lady Innisfail, they had acquainted her with a few of the incidents of the evening—how they also had been caught by the mist while in their boat, and had with considerable trouble succeeded in reaching the craft in which Miss Craven was helplessly drifting. They had heard Miss Craven’s cry for help, they said, and Harold had replied to it. But still they had some trouble picking up her boat.
Lady Innisfail heard all the story, and ventured to assert that all was well that ended well.
“And this is the end,” she cried, as she pointed to the shining hall seen through the open doors.
“Yes, this is the end of all—a pleasant end to the story,” said the girl.
Harold followed them as they entered.
He wondered if this was the end of the story, or only the beginning.