“You brought the light of the world,” he said, and caught her hand and held it. There was a silence. A fisherman passing along the sea-wall gave them good-day. “What made you come to Lymchurch?” he said presently, and his hand lay lightly on hers. She hesitated, and looked down at her hand and his.
“I knew you were here,” she said. His eyes met hers. “I always meant to see you again some day. And you knew me at once. That was so nice of you.”
“You have not changed,” he said; “your face has not changed, only you are older, and”
“I’m twenty-two; you needn’t reproach me with it. Yours is the same to a month.”
He moved on his elbow a little nearer to her.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” he asked, looking out to sea, “that you and I were made for each other?”
“No; never.”
He looked out to sea still, and his face clouded heavily.
“Ah—no—don’t look like that, dear; it never occurred to me—I think I must have always known it somehow, only”
