Clementina slowly sank on the sand of the slope, and like lovely sphinx of northern desert, gazed in immovable silence out on the yet more northern sea. Malcolm took his place a little below, leaning on his elbow, for the slope was steep, and looking up at her. Thus they waited the sunrise.
Was it minutes or only moments passed in that silence—whose speech was the soft ripple of the sea on the sand? Neither could have answered the question. At length said Malcolm,
“I think of changing my service, my lady.”
“Indeed, Malcolm!”
“Yes, my lady. My—mistress does not like to turn me away, but she is tired of me, and does not want me any longer.”
“But you would never think of finally forsaking a fisherman’s life for that of a servant, surely, Malcolm?”
“What would become of Kelpie, my lady?” rejoined Malcolm, smiling to himself.
“Ah!” said Clementina, bewildered; “I had not thought of her.— But you cannot take her with you,” she added, coming a little to her senses.
“There is nobody about the place who could, or rather, who would do anything with her. They would sell her. I have enough to buy her, and perhaps somebody might not object to the encumbrance, but hire me and her together.—Your groom wants a coachman’s place, my lady.”
“O Malcolm! do you mean you would be my groom?” cried Clementina, pressing her palms together.