sumer is a comen in,

loud sing cuccu.

groweth seed and bloweth mead

and springeth the wood nu.

sing cuccu.

another spring had come to the west country, crying over hill and dale its clear song of joy. once more salt airs came up from the channel, once more a delicious unrest filled the hearts of men.

marion walked out of the house alone and sought the headland crowned with furze whence she and roger, a year before, had seen the fair return sail out of the harbour. the year had made a difference to marion, adding an indefinable shade of resolution to lip and brow; there was a touch of gravity in the quiet grey eyes, a hint of ripening in the girlish figure.

something more than the restlessness of spring had driven marion to the solitude of the cliff side, something more than the emptiness of the house which simone had just left for a visit to her french home, something more than the realisation that soon she would be in kensington again with her aunt.

marion walked idly about the headland, pacing to and fro along the grassy stretch. from time to time her eyes swept the sunlit channel. presently she climbed to a higher ridge of the slope and sat down on the stone ledge that gave a view of the harbour.

a soft haze clung to the river mouth, and through it the spikes of the masts rose with a gentle motion. suddenly marion sprang to her feet and ran along a few yards to a higher point of the headland. among the small fishing boats of the garth men she could clearly discern the lines of a larger vessel. with her hand shading her eyes she studied the rig of the newcomer. men were still busy on her decks. she had clearly just sailed into port.

as marion stood, there was the sound of approaching footsteps on the hillside. she dropped her hand, turned, and remained motionless, her fingers plucking at the fold of her gown. a tall, bronzed figure, walking with a seaman's roll, was bearing round the cliff.

a wave of colour ran over marion's face as the figure approached, and for a few seconds she struggled with a wild desire to turn and flee.

then she heard her own voice speaking, and only a slight tremor, a deeper tone, betrayed her feeling.

'you always were a very sudden person, roger,' she said.

roger tossed his seaman's cap on the ground and gently took her hands. the dark eyes, with gold lights dancing in the brown, looked merrily into the steady grey ones. the look sobered, and marion's glance fell. she did not see the brown eyes run over her face and shining, red-gold hair.

for a long second they stood thus. then roger suddenly dropped his face into the hands he held.

with a tremulous laugh marion withdrew her fingers and lightly touched the dark head.

'there's that patch of hair as stiff as ever,' she said.

roger ran his hand over his head with the old, rueful expression.

'i know,' he said. 'and i shall grow bald all round it, and it will stand up so to the end. i knew a sailor's who stood up, harder than mine. but never mind my hair, mawfy. let me look at you again.'

marion turned away in silence, and they walked along a few yards and then sat down on the rocky ledge. soft airs circled the headland; sea gulls flashed over the sapphire bar of the sea. the sunlight, glancing over the cliff, fell on the gold and black heads, on the fair face and the dark face, on the slender fingers held in the firm, brown hand. out in the copses the spring song joyously rang again.

sumer is a comen in,

loud sing cuccu.

groweth seed and bloweth mead

and springeth the wood nu.

sing cuccu.