Reaching the broom bushes, Gethin waited in their shadows, recalling
every word and every look of Morva's on that well-remembered night,
when she had turned away from him so firmly, though so sorrowfully.
Waiting, he paced the greensward, sometimes stopping to toss a pebble
over the cliffs, and ever watching where on the grey moor a little
spark of light shone from Sara's window.

Was he mistaken? Would she come to-night? Surely yes, for the broom
bushes grew close to the path to Garthowen, and over that path she was
constantly passing and repassing, whether in daylight or starlight or
moonlight.

"'Tis very quiet here," he thought. "It makes me think of a night
watch at sea."

The sea heaved gently down below, the waves breaking softly and
regularly on the beach. He heard the rustling of the grasses as they
trembled in the night breeze, the hoot of the owl in the ivied chimneys
of Garthowen, the distant barking of a dog, the tinkle of a chain on
some fishing boat rocking on the undulating waves; but no other sound
broke the silence of the night.

"Jâr-i! there's slow she is, if she's coming at all," said Gethin.
"Will I go and see how Sara is after her journey? 'Tis what I ought to
do, and no mistake, after all her kindness."

And leaving the shadow of the bushes, he stepped out into the full
moonlight, only to meet Morva face to face.

"Well, indeed, Gethin!" she exclaimed, "I wasn't expecting to see you