Peter did not know that happiness could be so tranquil till in the morning he floated with Miranda upon the quiet sea. It seemed that only now did he have peace and time to realise that the miracle of their love was complete. It flooded him slowly in the silence of the dawn, as, waking to the chatter of birds, he lay without stirring, fearing to shake the comfort of a perfect memory. Miranda, waking soon, had answered his thought with only a pressure of the hand. The slow opening of her eyes, deep with fulfilment, sealed their marriage in the sun, assuring him it was not a passing ecstasy of moonlight and dark hours.

Then they had planned for the day to sail before a light wind, rounding the western rocks of the island. This would meet their need to be happily alone.

Peter had hired a tiny lugger in the bay, and they were passing now under the cliffs, making to weather the Needles and enjoy the painted glory of Alum.

The peace of a track almost unvisited, and the unnatural calm of the water, emphasized the cruelty of this iron shore. The sea lapped softly into worn caves at the base of the cliff. Sometimes it idly flung a wave of the tide so that it slapped at a hollow rock as at a muted drum, making a sound faintly terrible, like an understatement of something too evil to be uttered aloud.

Peter shuddered at the sound and at the sleeping white horror of the shore. He thought with regret of the sheltered and homely bay they had left. He had seen and enjoyed places more wild and lonely than this; but to-day he seemed no longer to desire their inhuman beauty.

Last night, upon the cliff, he had been ready to jump at death. It had seemed the only possible consummation of a passion that reached beyond him. But to-day he walked upon the earth. Something was added to his love—a comfortable sanity, a touch of dear humour, an immense friendliness.

He began to find in Miranda a homeliness more thrilling than the virginal beauty he had hardly dared to see. The wind and sun of their ride yesterday through Hampshire had rudely touched her face. To-day it was visibly peeling. She was no longer, in his eyes, remote and queenly, but she was infinitely more precious. He saw that her arm was freckled at the wrist.

Passion would take them again, and lift them above the world, coming and going as the spirit moved. But now there was something new, something he had not before encountered, a steady will to suffer with his beloved, to live between four walls, and encounter each small adventure in a loyal league against time.

The stress of his late years was now forgotten. He was eager for work—to fill up his life and make firm his foothold among men. His mind was swept and purified, his brain made clear and sweet. Life had perspective now. Miranda's humour and clear vision had touched him, conveyed in the miracle of their intimate life. He could smile now at the blind energy, the enthusiasms, sudden and absurd, of his late career. They became unreal as he talked with Miranda.

Every little thing was pleasant—their unsuccessful shots at a mooring; a picnic in the boat, swinging under the Alum cliffs; Miranda's lesson in ropes and knots; their landing on the beach in a gentle surf; the elfin look of Miranda's dripping hair as they came from bathing—it seemed that no detail could be commonplace.

In the evening they sailed west of the Needles, the sea divinely ruffled and lit with wind and sun. The beauty of the flecked sky and a hint of night in the east caught at them. Passion renewed shone in their eyes, passion unthwarted by the small kindness and laughter of the day. Their love could live with fun for company. It had familiarly walked and scrambled with them through the day, only the more surely to put forth wings at a touch.

Then the mood of their excursion changed. The wind rapidly freshened, and soon they rushed in a heeling boat, brightly dashed with spray, exhilarated and shouting to be heard. Miranda had to strain far back upon the gunwale, hauling hard at the sheet.

Peter wondered whence the breeze so suddenly had come. He looked to the south, and called to Miranda to look. A rain-cloud was advancing towards them, a line of pattering drops clearly cut upon the water.

It struck them suddenly; and Peter at once realised that, though the event was beautiful, he had no time to lose in admiration. They must run. They would have to tack into the Bay; and the wind was continually stronger. Miranda was aware in his orders to her of a strain of impatience and anxiety. She could herself see that the boat was in distress. They raced out to sea, keeping as far as possible from the cruel shore under which they had sailed in the morning.

The strain grew. In the midst of their peril Miranda exulted to feel that Peter knew what to do, and demanded of her an immediate answer to his directions. The knowledge he had playfully given her in the morning steadied them well. She had a glad sense that they were working competently together. Peter felt it too.

He looked grimly to port at the high cliff. Last night he had played with the idea of jumping down. He smiled, seeing that life could be ironical. He set his teeth. He had now no intention of dying. He shouted at Miranda, and rejoiced to see how quickly she took the word:

"Lee Ho!"

They weathered the point, and could now see the light of their house upon the cliff. Almost they were safe. For a time they rushed forward, blinded and drenched with rain and spray; then suddenly the wind was cut off, and it was calm. They were steadily moving towards their moorings in the Bay, and the shower was now pouring straightly out of the sky. The whole world had seemed a welter of water rushing at them from every point. Now it was merely raining, and they were uncomfortable.

Peter looked at Miranda. Her eyes and cheeks shone with excitement out of the bedraggled wreck of her hair. Her clothes clung absurdly about her. He felt the water trickling down his back and chest, and Miranda moved uneasily. She, too, was ridiculously teased.

But Peter's heart was glad. Their quick race under the cruel cliffs had shown him in a vision their life to come. It had given him a comrade at need, a companion for every day, brave and keen, rising above disaster, redeeming life from the peril, discomfort, and ridicule of mischance.

He ran the boat to her moorings, and watched Miranda as she hung over the side to ship the buoy. Her skirt, folded about her, dripped copiously into her shoes. He remembered how, as a boy, he had kissed the hem of her frock. He softly laughed, but wished he had not been so busy with the ropes.

When the boat was still, they looked at one another and burst into laughter. They were so miserably wet and foolish. Then Peter remembered how the spray had dashed upon the cruel white cliffs as they raced into the Bay; and it made their companionable safety very sweet. He flung his clammy arms about her, kissing her wet face and hair.

Already the lit windows of their house twinkled to the sea, and the moon was beginning to swing her lamp. At midnight she once more lit them preciously together. Then the sun put her out, and another day, kind and beautiful, called them happily to the common round.

THE END