And this is the way in which we go on,
down at Pavilionstone, every tide. And,
if you want to live a life of luggage, or to see
it lived, or to breathe sweet air which will
send you to sleep at a moment's notice at any
period of the day or night, or to disport yourself
upon or in the sea, or to scamper about
Kent, or to come out of town for the enjoyment
of all or any of these pleasures, come to
Pavilionstone.

                  WINIFRED'S VOW.

WINIFRED JAMES sat in the autumn moonlight
by the sea-shore with her friend Grace
Wilson. The heavy dew had soaked through
Grace's thin muslin gown, so that it clung dank
and close about her; her hair lay uncurled on
her bosom, and her wan face looked paler and
sadder than ever in the waning light of the
pallid autumn moon. There were no tears in
her sunken eyes looking mournfully out on the
dark waves, but they were full of a deeper
sorrow than is ever told or lightened by tears.
Her thin hands lay listlessly in her lap, and
their palms, curved inward, were burning as
if on fire; her lips were drawn and hard, and
the veins on her brow were blue and swollen:
no hope, no joy, no energy, no life was round
her; there was nothing but the dull oppression
of despair, the quiet of a sorrow which
can only be dissolved by death.

Winifred had often tried to understand the
strange mystery which of late had hung round
Grace. For she had not always been the
broken-hearted creature she looked to-night.
But, excepting a promise that she would
tell her sometime, Grace used to change
the subject as soon as her friend approached
it. However, to-night she let her say what
she would. Either the time fixed by herself
for her confession had arrived, or she was
conquered by the tenderness and love and quiet
strength of Winifred. Suddenly taking her
hand, she placed it on her waist; and, leaning
forward, whispered something in her ear
which made Winifred shrink and start, and
cover her face with both her hands, trembling.
"Now you will hate me," said Grace, in a hollow
voice, letting her hand fall dead in her lap.
"Like all the rest, when they know,—you too
will despise and desert me. I deserve it!"

"Never! never!" said Winifred passionately,
looking up through her tears and
kissing her. "Never, Grace!"

"Nor it? " said Grace. "When I am dead
will you take care of it?"

"No; nor it—and I will take care of it.
But you will not die, Grace! You cannot
die, then! When you hear that little voice
your soul will come back again to earth,
were it at the very gates of heaven."

"Heaven? For me?" said Grace. "No,
Winifred, my birthright on earth and my
hope of Heaven lie in the same grave with
my honour. Do not wish me to live as I
am now. Why should I? What have I but
to support eternal shame myself, and to see
all that I love—all that belong to me—cast
into the deep shadow of my disgrace? It
were better for us all that I and it should
die together. For when I am gone, who will
be its mother? Poor baby! What wrong
has it done to be born to an inheritance of
sorrow and infamy?"

"I will be its mother, Grace," said Winifred.
"I will love it, and care for it, all my
life. If you leave it—if you die—it shall
never feel that it has lost its mother. While
I live, it shall have one in me."

"You swear this, dear Winifred?"

"I swear it!" said the girl, solemnly,
raising her hand to heaven.

"Now I shall die happy," said Grace, kissing
her cheek. "Death has no pang for
me, now that I feel I shall not leave my
poor child wholly motherless. A pang? No!
death is my best friend, my only hope,
truly an angel messenger from God! O,
Winifred, how can I thank you for your
goodness! You little know the heavy burden
of sorrow I lay down, by this desolate sea-
shore, to-night—a burden unclasped by your
hands. But you will not be unrewarded.
The God who punishes, recompenses; the
hand which has stricken me will strengthen
you. Now, let us go home. I am weary,
Winifred, and my heart is very full. I must go
and pray—not for myself; I dare not pray for
myself; but for you and this innocent unborn
life, I may; and God will not refuse to hear
me when I ask His blessing for you!"

Weeks passed away, and Winifred stood
by Grace's dying bed. The supreme moment
had come; and, as she had foretold, the hour
which gave life to her child, closed her
own;—mercifully for her. Winifred did not
forget her vow. She took that child of sorrow,
shame, and death, and carried it to her own
home, as tenderly as if its birth had been the
wellspring of a nation's joy. Her mother, a
kind, good, weak woman, sanctioned the
unusual position she adopted: at least, by
silence. She did not condemn, if she did not
commend, but let things take their own
course. She only lifted up her hands and
eyes, saying, "Grace Wilson, who'd have
thought it!" and so the sad story passed
without further comment, but in time there
were not wanting many who ridiculed the
idea of such devotion, and who hinted plainly
that little Mary was nearer to Winifred than
a mere adopted child. It was all very well,
they said, for Mrs. James to be so complaisant,
and Winifred so generous, but they had
better reasons than a romantic morality
between them. Depend upon it, when folks
gave themselves out for better than the
rest of the world, they were sure to be
a precious deal worse. Grace Wilson was
dead, and queer things were said of her; but
who knew whether they were true or not?
And wasn't Miss Winifred away out of sight
for a long time, too? So the cloud darkening