Fermain Bay is in Guernsey. My home had been with my mother for many
years at St. Martin's in that island. There we two lived our uneventful
lives until fate brought one whom, when first I set my eyes on him, I
knew I loved.

Perhaps it is indiscreet of me to write that down. But what does it
matter? It is for no one's reading but my own. James, my _fiance_,
is _not_ peeping slyly over my shoulder as I write. On the
contrary, my door is locked, and James is, I believe, in the
smoking-room of his hotel at St. Peter's Port.

At that time it had become my habit to begin my day by rising before
breakfast and taking a swim in Fermain Bay, which lies across the road
in front of our cottage. The practice--I have since abandoned it--was
good for the complexion, and generally healthy. I had kept it up,
moreover, because I had somehow cherished an unreasonable but
persistent presentiment that some day Somebody (James, as it turned
out) would cross the pathway of my maiden existence. I told myself that
I must be ready for him. It would never do for him to arrive, and find
no one to meet him.

On the 28th of July I started off as usual. I wore a short tweed skirt,
brown stockings--my ankles were, and are, good--a calico blouse, and a
red tam-o'-shanter. Ponto barked at my heels. In one hand I carried my
blue twill bathing-gown. In the other a miniature alpenstock. The sun
had risen sufficiently to scatter the slight mist of the summer
morning, and a few flecked clouds were edged with a slender frame of
red gold.

Leisurely, and with my presentiment strong upon me, I descended the