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 know that I can help you, that I will help you if you will tell me what it is that troubles you.”

In the long silence that followed, Jamie manipulated the Bee Master’s raincoat to the best advantage possible and tightened the grip of his right arm. At last, above the rumbling of the subsiding storm, above the crashing of the waves below them, Jamie heard again the voice for which he was waiting.

“I can’t tell you,” said the woman, whose breast was still heaving, whose shoulders were still quivering. “I can’t tell a stranger in the darkness, in the storm, what it is that is hurting me!”

“Oh, yes, you can,” said Jamie, casually. “Better now than at any other time. If it is anything you aren’t proud of, the darkness will cover you. If it’s anything you are afraid of, you may depend on the strength there is in my right arm. If it is anything that as much of a man as I am can do for you, I want you to understand that you are my mother or my sister, or any relationship that you can think of that a man who is trying to be fairly decent wouldn’t violate. I’ll give you my word of honour that I will not follow you; I will not make any effort to learn who you are or where you come from. If you came here to-night intending to throw yourself into the undertow that sucks down from these rocks, you needn’t be any too sure that I didn’t come with the same intention. I’ll admit that I’ve thought about it. I’ve got a storm of my own in my breast. I’ve got my wounds that are still open and bleeding. There’s nothing about me that you need