There was not a more nervous, startled maiden in all New England that night than Liane as she flew along the beach, haunted by a fear of drunken men, of whom Stonecliff had its full quota.
And, indeed, she had not gone so very far before her fears took shape.
She heard distinctly, above her frightened heartbeats and her own light steps, the sound of a man's tread gaining on her, while his voice called out entreatingly:
"Elinor, Elinor! wait for me!"
The sea's voice, with the wind, seemed to echo the call.
"Elinor, Elinor! wait for me!"
But Liane did not wait. She only redoubled her speed, and she might have escaped her pursuer but that her little foot tripped on a stone and threw her prone upon the sands.
Before she could rise a man's arms closed about her tenderly, lifting her up, while he panted:
"Elinor, what girlish freak is this? Why wouldn't you wait for me, dear?"