get over that. Give her time! Give her time!"

So Mrs. Peck gave her time and urged her not at all. She was not very
friendly with Columbine in those days. She disapproved of her, and her
manner said as much. She kept all suspicions to herself, but she could
not behave as if nothing had happened.

"There's wild blood in her," she said darkly. "I mistrust her."

And Columbine was fully aware of the fact, but she was too wretched to
resent it. In any case, she would never have turned to Mrs. Peck for
comfort.

She came downstairs at last one summer evening when Mrs. Peck was busy
in the kitchen and no one was about. She had made no mention of her
intention; perhaps she wanted to be unhampered by observation. It had
been a soft, showery day, and there was the promise of more rain in the
sky.

She moved wearily, but not without purpose; and soon she was walking
with a hood drawn over her head in the direction of the cliff-edge where
grew the sweet bog-myrtle and the little roses.

She met no one by the way. It was nearing the hour for the evening meal,
nearing the hour when Mrs. Peck usually entered her room with the daily
offering of flowers that filled it with orange fragrance. Mrs. Peck was
not very fond of that particular task, though she never expressed her
reluctance. Well, she would not have it to accomplish tonight.

A bare-legged, blue-jerseyed figure was moving in a bent attitude along