lay the yellow belt of sand up which, inch by inch, the tide was
creeping.

And the air--no wind stirred it, though the wind was at work aloft--it
was still and bright as crystal, and crisp and cold as new-iced wine,
for the first autumn frost was falling.

They stood for a few moments looking at all these wonderful beauties
of the mysterious night--which dwellers in the country so rarely
appreciate, because to them they are common, daily things--and listening
to the soft, long-drawn murmuring of the sea upon the shingle. Then they
went forward to the edge of the cliff, but although Morris threw the fur
rug over it Mary did not seat herself in the comfortable-looking deck
chair. Her desire for repose had departed. She preferred to lean upon
the low grey wall in whose crannies grew lichens, tiny ferns, and, in
their season, harebells and wallflowers. Morris came and leant at her
side; for a while they both stared at the sea.

"Pray, are you making up poetry?" she inquired at last.

"Why do you ask such silly questions?" he answered, not without
indignation.

"Because you keep muttering to yourself, and I thought that you were
trying to get the lines to scan. Also the sea, and the sky, and the
night suggest poetry, don't they?"

Morris turned his head and looked at her.

"_You_ suggest it," he said, with desperate earnestness, "in all that