The storm raged till sunset; and then exhausted by its own stress of fury, began to roll away in angry sobs across the sea. The wind sank suddenly; the rain as suddenly ceased. A wonderful flush of burning orange light cut the sky asunder, spreading gradually upward and paling into fairest rose. The sullen clouds caught brightness at their summits, and took upon themselves the semblance of Alpine heights touched by the mystic glory of the dawn, and a clear silver radiance flashed across the ocean for a second and then vanished, as though a flaming torch had just flared up to show the troublous heaving of the waters, and had then been instantly quenched. As the evening came on the weather steadily cleared;—and presently a pure, calm, dark-blue expanse of ether stretched balmily across the whole width of the waves, with the evening star—the Star of Love—glimmering faintly aloft like a delicate jewel hanging on the very heart of the air. Far away down in the depths of the "coombe," a church bell rang softly for some holy service,—and when David Helmsley awoke at last from his death-like swoon he found himself no longer alone. A woman knelt beside him, supporting him in her arms,—and when he looked up at her wonderingly, he saw two eyes bent upon him with such watchful tenderness that in his weak, half-conscious state he fancied he must be wandering somewhere through heaven if the stars were so near. He tried to speak—to move,—but was checked by a gentle pressure of the protecting arms about him.

"Better now, dearie?" murmured a low anxious voice. "That's right! Don't try to get up just yet—take time! Let the strength come back to you first!"

Who was it—who could it be, that spoke to him with such affectionate solicitude? He gazed and gazed and marvelled,—but it was too dark to see the features of his rescuer. As consciousness grew more vivid, he realised that he was leaning against her bosom like a helpless child,—that the wet grass was all about him,—and that he was cold,—very cold, with a coldness as of some enclosing grave. Sense and memory returned to him slowly with sharp stabs of physical pain, and presently he found utterance.

"You are very kind!" he muttered, feebly—"I begin to recollect now—I had walked a long way—and I was caught in the storm—I felt ill,—very ill!—I suppose I must have fallen down here——"

"That's it!" said the woman, gently—"Don't try to think about it! You'll be better presently."

He closed his eyes wearily,—then opened them again, struck by a sudden self-reproach and anxiety.

"The little dog?" he asked, trembling—"The little dog I had with me——?"

He saw, or thought he saw, a smile on the face in the darkness.

"The little dog's all right,—don't you worry about him!" said the woman—"He knows how to take care of himself and you too! It was just him that brought me along here where I found you. Bless the little soul! He made noise enough for six of his size!"

Helmsley gave a faint sigh of pleasure.

"Poor little Charlie! Where is he?"

"Oh, he's close by! He was almost drowned with the rain, like a poor mouse in a pail of water, but he went on barking all the same! I dried him as well as I could in my apron, and then wrapped him up in my cloak,—he's sitting right in it just now watching me."

"If—if I die,—please take care of him!" murmured Helmsley.

"Nonsense, dearie! I'm not going to let you die out here on the hills,—don't think it!" said the woman, cheerily,—"I want to get you up, and take you home with me. The storm's well overpast,—if you could manage to move——"

He raised himself a little, and tried to see her more closer.

"Do you live far from here?" he asked.

"Only just on the upper edge of the 'coombe'—not in the village,"—she answered—"It's quite a short way, but a bit steep going. If you lean on me, I won't let you slip,—I'm as strong as a man, and as men go nowadays, stronger than most!"

He struggled to rise, and she assisted him. By dint of sheer mental force and determination he got himself on his feet, but his limbs shook violently, and his head swam.

"I'm afraid"—he faltered—"I'm afraid I am very ill. I shall only be a trouble to you——"

"Don't talk of trouble? Wait till I fetch the doggie!" And, turning from him a moment, she ran to pick up Charlie, who, as she had said, was snugly ensconced in the folds of her cloak, which she had put for him under the shelter of a projecting boulder,—"Could you carry him, do you think?"

He nodded assent, and put the little animal under his coat as before, touched almost to weak tears to feel it trying to lick his hand. Meanwhile his unknown and scarcely visible protectress put an arm round him, holding him up as carefully as though he were a tottering infant.

"Don't hurry—just take an easy step at a time,"—she said—"The moon rises a bit late, and we'll have to see our way as best we can with the stars." And she gave a glance upward. "That's a bright one just over the coombe,—the girls about here call it 'Light o' Love.'"

Moving stiffly, and with great pain, Helmsley was nevertheless impelled, despite his suffering, to look, as she was looking, towards the heavens. There he saw the same star that had peered at him through the window of his study at Carlton House Terrace,—the same that had sparkled out in the sky the night that he and Matt Peke had trudged the road together, and which Matt had described as "the love-star, an' it'll be nowt else in these parts till the world-without-end-amen!" And she whose eyes were upturned to its silvery glory,—who was she? His sight was very dim, and in the deepening shadows he could only discern a figure of medium womanly height,—an uncovered head with the hair loosely knotted in a thick coil at the nape of the neck,—and the outline of a face which might be fair or plain,—he could not tell. He was conscious of the warm strength of the arm that supported him, for when he slipped once or twice, he was caught up tenderly, without hurt or haste, and held even more securely than before. Gradually, and by halting degrees, he made the descent of the hill, and, as his guide helped him carefully over a few loose stones in the path, he saw through a dark clump of foliage the glimmer of twinkling lights, and heard the rush of water. He paused, vaguely bewildered.

"Nearly home now!" said his guide, encouragingly; "Just a few steps more and we'll be there. My cottage is the last and the highest in the coombe. The other houses are all down closer to the sea."

Still he stood inert.

"The sea!" he echoed, faintly—"Where is it?"

With her disengaged hand she pointed outwards.

"Yonder! By and by, when the moon comes over the hill, it will be shining like a silver field with big daisies blowing and growing all over it. That's the way it often looks after a storm. The tops of the waves are just like great white flowers."

He glanced at her as she said this, and caught a closer glimpse of her face. Some faint mystical light in the sky illumined the outlines of her features, and showed him a calm and noble profile, such as may be found in early Greek sculpture, and which silently expresses the lines:

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know!"

He moved on with a quicker step, touched by a keen sense of expectation. Ill as he knew himself to be, he was eager to reach this woman's dwelling and to see her more closely. A soft laugh of pleasure broke from her lips as he tried to accelerate his pace.

"Oh, we're getting quite strong and bold now, aren't we!" she exclaimed, gaily—"But take care not to go too fast! There's a rough bit of bog and boulder coming."

This was true. They had arrived at the upper edge of a bank overlooking a hill stream which was pouring noisily down in a flood made turgid by the rain, and the "rough bit of bog and boulder" was a sort of natural bridge across the torrent, formed by heaps of earth and rock, out of which masses of wet fern and plumy meadow-sweet sprang in tall tufts and garlands, which though beautiful to the eyes in day-time, were apt to entangle the feet in walking, especially when there was only the uncertain glimmer of the stars by which to grope one's way. Helmsley's age and over-wrought condition made his movements nervous and faltering at this point, and nothing could exceed the firm care and delicate solicitude with which his guide helped him over this last difficulty of the road. She was indeed strong, as she had said,—she seemed capable of lifting him bodily, if need were—yet she was not a woman of large or robust frame. On the contrary, she appeared slightly built, and carried herself with that careless grace which betokens perfect form. Once safely across the bridge and on the other side of the coombe, she pointed to a tiny lattice window with a light behind it which gleamed out through the surrounding foliage like a glow-worm in the darkness.

"Here we are at home," she said,—"Just along this path—it's quite easy!—now under this tree—it's a big chestnut,—you'll love it!—now here's the garden gate—wait till I lift the latch—that's right!—the garden's quite small you see,—it goes straight up to the cottage—and here's the door! Come in!"

As in a dream, Helmsley was dimly conscious of the swishing rustle of wet leaves, and the fragrance of mignonette and roses mingling with the salty scent of the sea,—then he found himself in a small, low, oak-raftered kitchen, with a wide old-fashioned hearth and ingle-nook, warm with the glow of a sparkling fire. A quaintly carved comfortably cushioned armchair was set in the corner, and to this his guide conducted him, and gently made him sit down.

"Now give me the doggie!" she said, taking that little personage from his arms—"He'll be glad of his supper and a warm bed, poor little soul! And so will you!"

With a kindly caress she set Charlie down in front of the hearth, and proceeded to shut the cottage door, which had been left open as they entered,—and locking it, dropped an iron bar across it for the night. Then she threw off her cloak, and hung it up on a nail in the wall, and bending over a lamp which was burning low on the table, turned up its wick a little higher. Helmsley watched her in a kind of stupefied wonderment. As the lamplight flashed up on her features, he saw that she was not a girl, but a woman who seemed to have thought and suffered. Her face was pale, and the lines of her mouth were serious, though very sweet. He could hardly judge whether she had beauty or not, because he saw her at a disadvantage. He was too ill to appreciate details, and he could only gaze at her in the dim and troubled weariness of an old and helpless man, who for the time being was dependent on any kindly aid that might be offered to him. Once or twice the vague idea crossed his mind that he would tell her who he was, and assure her that he had plenty of money about him to reward her for her care and pains,—but he could not bring himself to the point of this confession. The surprise and sweetness of being received thus unquestioningly under the shelter of her roof as merely the poor way-worn tramp he seemed to be, were too great for him to relinquish. She, meanwhile, having trimmed the lamp, hurried into a neighboring room, and came in again with a bundle of woollen garments, and a thick flannel dressing gown on her arm.

"This was my father's," she said, as she brought it to him—"It's soft and cosy. Get off your wet clothes and slip into it, while I go and make your bed ready."

She spread the dressing gown before the fire to warm it, and was about to turn away again, when Helmsley laid a detaining hand on her arm.

"Wait—wait!" he said—"Do you know what you are doing?"

She laughed.

"Well, now that is a question! Do I seem crazy?"

"Almost you do—to me!" And stirred into a sudden flicker of animation, he held her fast as he spoke—"Do you live alone here?"

"Yes,—quite alone."

"Then don't you see how foolish you are? You are taking into your house a mere tramp,—a beggar who is more likely to die than live! Do you realise how dangerous this is for you? I may be an escaped convict,—a thief—even a murderer! You cannot tell!"

She smiled and nodded at him as a nurse might nod and smile at a fanciful or querulous patient.

"I can't tell, certainly, and don't want to know!" she replied—"I go by what I see."

"And what do you see?"

She patted his thin cold hand kindly.

"I see a very old man—older than my own dear father was when he died—and I know he is too old and feeble to be out at night in the wet and stormy weather. I know that he is ill and weak, and suffering from exhaustion, and that he must rest and be well nourished for a few days till he gets strong again. And I am going to take care of him,"—here she gave a consoling little pressure to the hand she held. "I am indeed! And he must do as he is told, and take off his wet clothes and get ready for bed!"

Something in Helmsley's throat tightened like the contraction of a rising sob.

"You will risk all this trouble,"—he faltered—"for a stranger—who—who—cannot repay you—?——"

"Now, now! You mustn't hurt me!" she said, with a touch of reproach in her soft tones—"I don't want to be repaid in any way. You know Who it was that said 'I was a stranger and ye took me in'? Well, He would wish me to take care of you."

She spoke quite simply, without any affectation of religious sentiment. Helmsley looked at her steadily.

"Is that why you shelter me?"

She smiled very sweetly, and he saw that her eyes were beautiful.

"That is one reason, certainly!"—she answered; "But there is another,—quite a selfish one! I loved my father, and when he died, I lost everything I cared for in the world. You remind me of him—just a little. Now will you do as I ask you, and take off your wet things?"

He let go her hand gently.

"I will,"—he said, unsteadily—for there were tears in his eyes—"I will do anything you wish. Only tell me your name!"

"My name? My name is Mary,—Mary Deane."

"Mary Deane!" he repeated softly—and yet again—"Mary Deane! A pretty name! Shall I tell you mine!"

"Not unless you like,"—she replied, quickly—"It doesn't matter!"

"Oh, you'd better know it!" he said—"I'm only old David—a man 'on the road' tramping it to Cornwall."

"That's a long way!" she murmured compassionately, as she took his weather-beaten hat and shook the wet from it—"And why do you want to tramp so far, you poor old David?"

"I'm looking for a friend,"—he answered—"And maybe it's no use trying,—but I should like to find that friend before I die."

"And so you will, I'm sure!" she declared, smiling at him, but with something of an anxious expression in her eyes, for Helmsley's face was very pinched and pallid, and every now and then he shivered violently as with an ague fit—"But you must pick up your strength first. Then you'll get on better and quicker. Now I'm going to leave you while you change. You'll find plenty of warm things with the dressing gown."

She went out as before into the next room, and Helmsley managed, though with considerable difficulty, to divest himself of his drenched clothes and get on the comfortable woollen garments she had put ready for him. When he took off his coat and vest, he spread them in front of the fire to dry instead of the dressing-gown which he now wore, and as soon as she returned he specially pointed out the vest to her.

"I should like you to put that away somewhere in your own safe keeping,"—he said. "It has a few letters and—and papers in it which I value,—and I don't want any stranger to see them. Will you take care of it for me?"

"Of course I will! Nobody shall touch it, be sure! Not a soul ever comes nigh me unless I ask for company!—so you can be quite easy in your mind. Now I'm going to give you a cup of hot soup, and then you'll go to bed, won't you?—and, please God, you'll be better in the morning!"

He nodded feebly, and forced a smile. He had sunk back in the armchair and his eyes were fixed on the warm-hearth, where the tiny dog, Charlie, whom he had rescued, and who in turn had rescued him, was curled up and snoozing peacefully. Now that the long physical and nervous strain of his journey and of his ghastly experience at Blue Anchor was past, he felt almost too weak to lift a hand, and the sudden change from the fierce buffetings of the storm to the homely tranquillity of this little cottage into which he had been welcomed just as though he had every right to be there, affected him with a strange sensation which he could not analyse. And once he murmured half unconsciously:

"Mary! Mary Deane!"

"Yes,—that's me!" she responded cheerfully, coming to his side at once—"I'm here!"

He lifted his head and looked at her.

"Yes, I know you are here,—Mary!" he said, his voice trembling a little as he uttered her name—"And I thank God for sending you to me in time! But how—how was it that you found me?"

"I was watching the storm,"—she replied—"I love wild weather!—I love to hear the wind among the trees and the pouring of the rain! I was standing at my door listening to the waves thudding into the hollow of the coombe, and all at once I heard the sharp barking of a dog on the hill just above here—and sometimes the bark changed to a pitiful little howl, as if the animal were in pain. So I put on my cloak and crossed the coombe up the bank—it's only a few minutes' scramble, though to you it seemed ever such a long way to-night,—and there I saw you lying on the grass with the little doggie running round and round you, and making all the noise he could to bring help. Wise little beastie!" And she stooped to pat the tiny object of her praise, who sighed comfortably and stretched his dainty paws out a little more luxuriously—"If it hadn't been for him you might have died!"

He said nothing, but watched her in a kind of morbid fascination as she went to the fire and removed a saucepan which she had set there some minutes previously. Taking a large old-fashioned Delft bowl from a cupboard at one side of the fire-place, she filled it with steaming soup which smelt deliciously savoury and appetising, and brought it to him with some daintily cut morsels of bread. He was too ill to feel much hunger, but to please her, he managed to sip it by slow degrees, talking to her between-whiles.

"You say you live alone here,"—he murmured—"But are you always alone?"

"Always,—ever since father died."

"How long is that ago?"

"Five years."

"You are not—you have not been—married?"

She laughed.

"No indeed! I'm an old maid!"

"Old?" And he raised his eyes to her face. "You are not old!"

"Well, I'm not young, as young people go,"—she declared—"I'm thirty-four. I was never married for myself in my youth,—and I shall certainly never be married for my money in my age!" Again her pretty laugh rang softly on the silence. "But I'm quite happy, all the same!"

He still looked at her intently,—and all suddenly it dawned upon him that she was a beautiful woman. He saw, as for the first time, the clear transparency of her skin, the soft brilliancy of her eyes, and the wonderful masses of her warm bronze brown hair. He noted the perfect poise of her figure, clad as it was in a cheap print gown,—the slimness of her waist, the fulness of her bosom, the white roundness of her throat. Then he smiled.

"So you are an old maid!" he said—"That's very strange!"

"Oh, I don't think so!" and she shook her head deprecatingly—"Many women are old maids by choice as well as by necessity. Marriage isn't always bliss, you know! And unless a woman loves a man very very much—so much that she can't possibly live her life without him, she'd better keep single. At least that's my opinion. Now Mr. David, you must go to bed!"

He rose obediently—but trembled as he rose, and could scarcely stand from sheer weakness. Mary Deane put her arm through his to support him.

"I'm afraid,"—he faltered—"I'm afraid I shall be a burden to you! I don't think I shall be well enough to start again on my way to-morrow."

"You won't be allowed to do any such foolish thing!" she answered, with quick decision—"So you can just make up your mind on that score! You must stay here as my guest."

"Not a paying one, I fear!" he said, with a pained smile, and a quick glance at her.

She gave a slight gesture of gentle reproach.

"I wouldn't have you on paying terms,"—she answered; "I don't take in lodgers."

"But—but—how do you live?"

He put the question hesitatingly, yet with keen curiosity.

"How do I live? You mean how do I work for a living? I am a lace mender, and a bit of a laundress too. I wash fine muslin gowns, and mend and clean valuable old lace. It's pretty work and pleasant enough in its way."

"Does it pay you well?"

"Oh, quite sufficiently for all my needs. I don't cost much to keep!" And she laughed—"I'm all by myself, and I was never money-hungry! Now come!—you mustn't talk any more. You know who I am and what I am,—and we'll have a good long chat to-morrow. It's bed-time!"

She led him, as though he were a child, into a little room,—one of the quaintest and prettiest he had ever seen,—with a sloping raftered ceiling, and one rather wide latticed window set in a deep embrasure and curtained with spotless white dimity. Here there was a plain old-fashioned oak bedstead, trimmed with the same white hangings, the bed itself being covered with a neat quilt of diamond-patterned silk patchwork. Everything was delicately clean, and fragrant with the odour of dried rose-leaves and lavender,—and it was with all the zealous care of an anxious housewife that Mary Deane assured her "guest" that the sheets were well-aired, and that there was not "a speck of damp" anywhere. A kind of instinct told him that this dainty little sleeping chamber, so fresh and pure, with not even a picture on its white-washed walls, and only a plain wooden cross hung up just opposite to the bed, must be Mary's own room, and he looked at her questioningly.

"Where do you sleep yourself?" he asked.

"Upstairs,"—she answered, at once—"Just above you. This is a two-storied cottage—quite large really! I have a parlour besides the kitchen,—oh, the parlour's very sweet!—it has a big window which my father built himself, and it looks out on a lovely view of the orchard and the stream,—then I have three more rooms, and a wash-house and cellar. It's almost too big a cottage for me, but father loved it, and he died here,—that's why I keep all his things about me and stay on in it. He planted all the roses in the orchard,—and I couldn't leave them!"

Helmsley said nothing in answer to this. She put an armchair for him near the bed.

"Now as soon as you're in bed, just call to me and I'll put out the light in the kitchen and go to bed myself,"—she said—"And I'll take the little doggie with me, and make him comfortable for the night. I'm leaving you a candle and matches, and if you feel badly at all, there's a handbell close by,—mind you ring it, and I'll come to you at once and do all I can for you."

He bent his eyes searchingly upon her in his old suspicious "business" way, his fuzzy grey eyebrows almost meeting in the intensity of his gaze.

"Tell me—why are you so good to me?" he asked.

She smiled.

"Don't ask nonsense questions, please, Mr. David! Haven't I told you already?—not why I am 'good,' because that's rubbish—but why I am trying to take care of you?"

"Yes—because I am old!" he said, with a sudden pang of self-contempt—"and—useless!"

"Good-night!" she answered, cheerfully—"Call to me when you are ready!"

She was gone before he could speak another word and he heard her talking to Charlie in petting playful terms of endearment. Judging from the sounds in the kitchen, he concluded, and rightly, that she was getting her own supper and that of the dog at the same time. For two or three minutes he sat inert, considering his strange and unique position. What would this present adventure lead to? Unless his new friend, Mary Deane, examined the vest he had asked her to take care of for him, she would not discover who he was or from whence he came. Would she examine it?—would she unrip the lining, just out of feminine curiosity, and sew it up again, pretending that she had not touched it, after the "usual way of women"? No! He was sure,—absolutely sure—of her integrity. What? In less than an hour's acquaintance with her, would he swear to her honesty? Yes, he would! Never could such eyes as hers, so softly, darkly blue and steadfast, mirror a falsehood, or deflect the fragment of a broken promise! And so, for the time being, in utter fatigue of both body and mind, he put away all thought, all care for the future, and resigned himself to the circumstances by which he was now surrounded. Undressing as quickly as he could in his weak and trembling condition, he got into the bed so comfortably prepared for him, and lay down in utter lassitude, thankful for rest. After he had lain so for a few minutes he called:

"Mary Deane!"

She came at once, and looked in, smiling.

"All cosy and comfortable?" she queried—"That's right!" Then entering the room, she showed him the very vest, the possible fate of which he had been considering.

"This is quite dry now,"—she said—"I've been thinking that perhaps as there are letters and papers inside, you'd like to have it near you,—so I'm just going to put it in here—see?" And she opened a small cupboard in the wall close to the bed—"There! Now I'll lock it up"—and she suited the action to the word—"Where shall I put the key?"

"Please keep it for me yourself!" he answered, earnestly,—"It will be safest with you!"

"Well, perhaps it will,"—she agreed. "Anyhow no one can get at your letters without my consent! Now, are you quite easy?"

And, as she spoke, she came and smoothed the bedclothes over him, and patted one of his thin, worn hands which lay, almost unconsciously to himself, outside the quilt.

"Quite!" he said, faintly, "God bless you!"

"And you too!" she responded—"Good-night—David!"

"Good-night—Mary!"

She went away with a light step, softly closing the door behind her. Returning to the kitchen she took up the little dog Charlie in her arms, and nestled him against her bosom, where he was very well content to be, and stood for a moment looking meditatively into the fire.

"Poor old man!" she murmured—"I'm so glad I found him before it was too late! He would have died out there on the hills, I'm sure! He's very ill—and so worn out and feeble!"

Involuntarily her glance wandered to a framed photograph which stood on the mantelshelf, showing the likeness of a white-haired man standing among a group of full-flowering roses, with a smile upon his wrinkled face,—a smile expressing the quaintest and most complete satisfaction, as though he sought to illustrate the fact that though he was old, he was still a part of the youthful blossoming of the earth in summer-time.

"What would you have done, father dear, if you had been here to-night?"—she queried, addressing the portrait—"Ah, I need not ask! I know! You would have brought your suffering brother home, to share all you had;—you would have said to him 'Rest, and be thankful!' For you never turned the needy from your door, my dear old dad!—never!—no matter how much you were in need yourself!"

She wafted a kiss to the venerable face among the roses,—and then turning, extinguished the lamp on the table. The dying glow of the fire shone upon her for a moment, setting a red sparkle in her hair, and a silvery one on the silky head of the little dog she carried, and outlining her fine profile so that it gleamed with a pure soft pallor against the surrounding darkness,—and with one final look round to see that all was clear for the night, she went away noiselessly like a lovely ghost and disappeared, her step making no sound on the short wooden stairs that led to the upper room which she had hastily arranged for her own accommodation, in place of the one now occupied by the homeless wayfarer she had rescued.

There was no return of the storm. The heavens, with their mighty burden of stars, remained clear and tranquil,—the raging voice of ocean was gradually sinking into a gentle crooning song of sweet content,—and within the little cottage complete silence reigned, unbroken save for the dash of the stream outside, rushing down through the "coombe" to the sea.