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 ............