"I said 'Yes,' with the lazy sort of languor born of the indolence of the hour.
"'Have you energy enough for a walk to the sea-shore?' he asked.
"It had been my wish that very day. I had not been there since Mary's illness. I hesitated in giving an answer. Abraham would be home at sunset.
"'Don't go, if it is only to please me,' he said.
"'I am going to please myself,' I answered; 'only I wish to be at home on Abraham's coming.'
"That afternoon, Bernard McKey for the first time told me of himself, and what the two years in Redleaf had done for him. One month more, and he should leave it. He put into words the memory of that first look across the dead. He talked to me, until the sea lost its sunlight sheen,—until I no longer heard its beat of incoming tide,—until I forgot the hour for Abraham's coming. It was he who reminded me of it. Once more we paced the sands, already sown with our many footsteps, that the advancing waters would soon overwhelm. After that we went village-ward. The gloaming had come down when we reached home.
"'Abraham must have been an hour here,' I thought, as alone I went in.
"He met me in the hall.
"'Where have you been, Lettie?' was his greeting.
"'On the sands.'