About this time Anna was not seeing very much of Henry Mynors. At twenty a man is rash in love, and again, perhaps, at fifty; a man of middle-age enamoured of a young girl is capable of . But the man of thirty who loves for the first time is usually the embodiment of cautious . He does not fall in love with a violent descent, but rather lets himself gently down, continually testing the rope. His social value, especially if he have achieved worldly success, is at its highest, and, without , he is aware of it. He has lost many illusions concerning women; he has seen more than one friend in the sea of foolish marriage; he knows the joys of a bachelor's freedom, without having wearied of them; he perceives risks where the youth perceives only , and the oldster only a blissful release from . Instead of searching, he is sought for; accordingly he is selfish and . All these things, combine to tranquillize passion at thirty. Mynors was in love with Anna, and his love had its moments; but in the main it was a affection, an affection that walked , with its eyes open, careful of its dignity, too proud to seem in a hurry; if, by impulse, it chanced now and then to leap forward, the involuntary movement was mastered and checked. Mynors called at Terrace once a week, never on the same day of the week, nor without discussing business with the . Occasionally he accompanied Anna from school or . Such methods were to Anna's taste. Like him, she loved and decorum, preferring to make haste slowly. Since the , they had only once talked together intimately; on that sole occasion Henry had suggested to her that she might care to join Mrs. Sutton's class, which met on Monday nights; she accepted the hint with pleasure, and found a well of spiritual inspiration in Mrs. Sutton's modest and simple yet homilies. Mynors was not guilty of blowing both hot and cold. She was sure of him. She waited calmly for events, existing, as her habit was, in the future.  
The future, then, meant the of Man. Anna dreamed of an isle and hours of unimaginable . For a whole week after Mrs. Sutton had won Ephraim's consent, her vision never stooped to practical details. Then Beatrice called to see her; it was the morning after the treat, and Anna was brushing her muddy frock; she wore a large white , and held a cloth-brush in her hand as she opened the door.
 
'You're busy?' said Beatrice.
 
'Yes,' said Anna, 'but come in. Come into the kitchen—do you mind?'
 
Beatrice was covered from neck to heel with a long mackintosh, which she threw off when entering the kitchen.
 
'Anyone else in the house?' she asked.
 
'No,' said Anna, smiling, as Beatrice seated herself, with a sigh of content, on the table.
 
'Well, let's talk, then.' Beatrice drew from her pocket the indispensable chocolates and offered them to Anna. 'I say, wasn't last night awful? Henry got wet through in the end, and mother made him stop at our house, as he was at the trouble to take me home. Did you see him go down this morning?'
 
'No; why?' said Anna, stiffly.
 
'Oh—no reason. Only I thought perhaps you did. I simply can't tell you how glad I am that you're coming with us to the Isle of Man; we shall have rare fun. We go every year, you know—to Port Erin, a lovely little fishing village. All the fishermen know us there. Last year Henry hired a yacht for the fortnight, and we all went mackerel-fishing, every day; except sometimes Pa. Now and then Pa had a tendency to go in caves and things. I do hope it will be fine weather again by then, don't you?'
 
'I'm looking forward to it, I can tell you,' Anna said. 'What day are we supposed to start?'
 
'Saturday week.'
 
'So soon?' Anna was surprised at the of the event.
 
'Yes; and quite late enough, too. We should start earlier, only the Dad always makes out he can't. Men always pretend to be so frightfully busy, and I believe it's all put on.' Beatrice continued to chat about the holiday, and then of a sudden she asked: 'What are you going to wear?'
 
'Wear!' Anna repeated; and added, with : 'I suppose one will want some new clothes?'
 
'Well, just a few! Now let me advise you. Take a blue serge skirt. Sea-water won't harm it, and if it's dark enough it will look well to any mortal blouse. , you can't have too many blouses; they're always useful at the seaside. Plain straw-hats are my tip. A coat for nights, and thick boots. There! Of course no one ever dresses at Port Erin. It isn't like Llandudno, and all that sort of thing. You don't have to meet your young man on the , because there isn't a pier.'
 
There was a pause. Anna did not know what to say. At length she ventured: 'I'm not much for clothes, as I dare say you've noticed.'
 
'I think you always look nice, my dear,' Beatrice responded. Nothing was said as to Anna's wealth, no reference made as to the between that and the style of her garments. By a fiction, there was supposed to be no discrepancy.
 
'Do you make your own frocks?' Beatrice asked, later.
 
'Yes.'
 
'Do you know I thought you did. But they do you great credit. There's few people can make a plain frock look decent.'
 
This conversation brought Anna with a shock to the level of earth. She perceived—only too well—a point which she had not hitherto fairly faced in her : that her father was still a factor in the case. Since Mrs. Sutton's visit both Anna and the miser avoided the subject of the holiday. 'You can't have too many blouses.' Did Beatrice, then, have blouses by the dozen? A coat, a serge skirt, straw hats (how many?)—the catalogue frightened her. She began to suspect that she would not be able to go to the Isle of Man.
 
'About me going with Suttons to the Isle of Man?' she her father, in the afternoon, outwardly calm, but with secret trembling.
 
'Well?' he exclaimed .
 
'I shall want some money—a little.' She would have given much not to have added that 'little,' but it came out of itself.
 
'It's a waste o' time and money—that's what I call it. I can't think why Suttons asked ye. Ye aren't ill, are ye?' His changed to .
 
'No, father; but as it's arranged, I suppose I shall have to go.'
 
'Well, I'm none so set up with the idea mysen.'
 
'Shan't you be all right with Agnes?'
 
'Oh, yes. I shall be all right. I don't want much. I've no and fal-lals. How long art going to be away?'
 
'I don't know. Didn't Mrs. Sutton tell you? You arranged it.'
 
'That I didna'. Her said nowt to me.'
 
'Well, anyhow I shall want some clothes.'
 
'What for? Art naked?'
 
'I must have some money.' Her voice shook. She was getting near tears.
 
'Well, thou's gotten thy own money, hast na'?'
 
'All I want is that you shall let me have some of my own money. There's forty odd pounds now in the bank.'
 
'Oh!' he repeated, , 'all ye want is as I shall let thee have some o' thy own money. And there's forty odd pound i' the bank. Oh!'
 
'Will you give me my cheque-book out of the bureau? And I'll draw a cheque; I know how to.' She had conquered the instinct to cry, and her tones became somewhat . Ephraim seized the chance.
 
'No, I won't give ye the cheque-book out o' th' bureau,' he said flatly. 'And I'll thank ye for less sauce.'
 
That finished the episode. Proudly she took an oath with herself not to re-open the question, and resolved to write a note to Mrs. Sutton saying that on consideration she found it impossible to go to the Isle of Man.
 
The next morning there came to Anna a letter from the secretary of a limited company enclosing a post-office order for ten pounds. Some weeks her father had discovered an error of that amount in the of income-tax from the paid by this company, and had instructed Anna to demand the sum. She had obeyed, and then forgotten the affair. Here was the answer. Desperate at the thought of missing the holiday, she cashed the order, bought and made her clothes in secret, and then, two days before the arranged date of departure told her father what she had done. He was ; but since his anger was too illogical to be rendered effectively coherent in words, he had the wit to keep silence. With bitterness Anna reflected that she owed her holiday to the merest accident—for if the had arrived a little earlier or a little later, or in the form of a cheque, she could not have utilised it.
 
 
It was an incredible day, the following Saturday, a warm and day of earliest autumn. The Suttons, in a hired cab, called for Anna at half-past eight, on the way to the main line station at Shawport. Anna's tin box was flung on to the roof of the cab amid the trunks and portmanteaux already there.
 
'Why should not Agnes ride with us to the station?' Beatrice suggested.
 
', nay; there's no room,' said Tellwright, who stood at the door, by an unacknowledged of Mrs. Sutton thus to give official sanction to Anna's departure.
 
'Yes, yes,' Mrs. Sutton exclaimed. 'Let the little thing come, Mr. Tellwright.'
 
Agnes, far more excited than any of the rest, seized her straw hat, and slipping the under her small chin, sprang into the cab, and found a between Mr. Sutton's short, fat legs. The driver drew his whip smartly across the neck of the cream . They were off. What a , , delicious journey, down the first hill, up Duck Bank, through the market-place, and down the steep of Oldcastle Street! Silent and shy, Agnes smiled ecstatically at the others. Anna answered remarks in a dream. She was conscious only of present happiness and happy expectation. All bitterness had disappeared. At least thirty thousand Bursley folk were not going to the Isle of Man that day—their and cheerless faces swam in a continuous stream past the cab window—and Anna sympathised with every unit of them. Her spirit with universal . What haste and confusion at the station! The train was signalled, and the porter, crossing the line with the luggage, ran his truck under the very of the incoming engine. Mynors was awaiting them, admirably as a tourist. He had got the tickets, and secured a private in the through-coach for Liverpool; and he found time to arrange with the cabman to drive Agnes home on the box-seat. Certainly there was none like Mynors. From the footboard of the carriage Anna down to kiss Agnes. The child had been laughing and . Suddenly, as Anna's lips touched hers, she burst into tears, as though overtaken by some terrible and unexpected misfortune. Tears stood also in Anna's eyes. The sisters had never been parted before.
 
'Poor little thing!' Mrs. Sutton murmured; and Beatrice told her father to give Agnes a shilling to buy chocolates at Stevenson's in St. Luke's Square, that being the best shop. The shilling fell between the footboard and the platform. A scream from Beatrice! The attendant porter promised to rescue the shilling in due course. The engine whistled, the silver-mounted guard asserted his authority, Mynors leaped in, and amid laughter and tears the brief and unique joy of Anna's life began.
 
In a moment, so it seemed, the train was thundering through the mile of solid rock which ends at Lime Street Station, Liverpool. Thenceforward, till she fell asleep that night, Anna existed in a state of blissful bewilderment, stupefied by an overdose of novel and sensations. They lunched in amazing magnificence at the Bear's Paw, and then walked through the crowded and streets to Prince's landing-stage. The luggage had disappeared by some mysterious agency—Mynors said that they would find it safe at Douglas; but Anna could not the fear that her tin box had gone for ever.
 
The great, river, churned by thousands of keels; the steamer—the 'Mona's Isle'—whose side rose like solid wall out of the water; the of its decks; its vast saloons, story under story, solid and (could all this float?); its high bridge; its as thick as trees; its like sloping towers; the multitudes of passengers; the whistles, , cries; the far-stretching of and docks; the ferry-craft carrying horses and carts, and no one looking twice at the feat—it was all too much, too astonishing, too lovely. She had not guessed at this.
 
'They call Liverpool the slum of Europe,' said Mynors.
 
'How can you!' she exclaimed, shocked.
 
Beatrice, seeing her radiant and rapt face, walked to and fro with Anna, proud of the effect produced on her friend's inexperience by these sights. One might have thought that Beatrice had built Liverpool and created its trade by her own efforts.
 
Suddenly the landing-stage and all the people on it moved away bodily from the ship; there was green water between; a like that of an earthquake ran along the deck; handkerchiefs were waved. The voyage had commenced. Mynors found chairs for all the Suttons, and tucked them up on the lee-side of a deck-house; but Anna did not stir. They passed New Brighton, Seaforth, and the Crosby and Formby lightships.
 
'Come and view the ship,' said Mynors, at her side. 'Suppose we go round and inspect things a bit?'
 
'It's a very big one, isn't it?' she asked.
 
'Pretty big,' he said; 'of course not as big as the Atlantic liners—I wonder we didn't meet one in the river—but still pretty big. Three hundred and twenty feet over all. I sailed on her last year on her voyage. She was packed, and the weather very bad.'
 
'Will it be rough to-day?' Anna inquired timidly.
 
'Not if it keeps like this,' he laughed. 'You don't feel queer, do you?'
 
'Oh, no. It's as firm as a house. No one could be ill with this?'
 
'Couldn't they?' he exclaimed. 'Beatrice could be.'
 
They into the ship, and he explained all its internal economy, with a knowledge that seemed to her encyclopædic. They stayed a long time watching the engines, so , ruthless, and deliberate; even the smell of the oil was pleasant to Anna. When they came on deck again the ship was at sea. For the first time Anna the ocean. A strong breeze blew from to stern, yet the sea was absolutely calm, the unruffled mirror of sunlight. The steamer moved alone on the waters, , leaving behind it an endless track of white froth in the green, and the shadow of its smoke. The sun, the salt breeze, the living water, the proud gaiety of the ship, produced a feeling of intense, joy, a profound satisfaction with the present, and a of past and future. To exist was enough, then. As Anna and Henry leaned over the starboard quarter and watched the of rush madly and ceaselessly from under the paddle-box to be swallowed up in the white wake, the spectacle of the wild torrent almost hypnotised them, destroying thought and reason, and all sense of their relation to other things. With difficulty Anna raised her eyes, and perceived the dim line of the Lancashire coast.
 
'Shall we get quite out of sight of land?' she asked.
 
'Yes, for a little while, about half an hour or so. Just as much out of sight of land as if we were in the middle of the Atlantic.'
 
'I can scarcely believe it.'
 
'Believe what?'
 
'Oh! The idea of that—of being out of sight of land—nothing but sea.'
 
When at last it occurred to them to reconnoitre the Suttons, they found all three still in their deck-chairs, enwrapped and languid. Mr. Sutton and Beatrice were . This part of the deck was occupied by , figures.
 
'Don't wake them,' Mrs. Sutton , whispering out of her . Anna glanced at Beatrice's yellow face.
 
'Go away, do,' Beatrice exclaimed, opening her eyes and shutting them again, wearily.
 
So they went away, and discovered two empty deck-chairs on the fore-deck. Anna was innocently vain of her from malaise. Mynors appeared to appoint himself little errands about the deck, returning frequently to his chair. 'Look over there. Can you see anything?'
 
Anna ran to the rail, with the infantile idea of getting nearer, and Mynors followed, laughing. What looked like a small -coloured cloud lay on the horizon.
 
'I seem to see something,' she said.
 
'That is the Isle of Man.'
 
By insensible gradations the contours of the land grew clearer in the afternoon .
 
'How far are we off now?'
 
'Perhaps twenty miles.'
 
Twenty miles of uninterrupted flatness, and the ship invading that separating solitude, yard by yard, furlong by furlong! The conception her. There, a in the waste of the deep, a under the infinite sunlight, lay the island, mysterious, , enchanted, a glinting jewel on, the sea's , a remote with strange secrets. It was all unspeakable.
 
 
'Anna, you have covered yourself with glory,' said Mrs. Sutton, when they were in the and absurd train which by breathless the sixteen miles between Douglas and Port Erin in sixty-five minutes.
 
'Have I?' she answered. 'How?'
 
'By not being ill.'
 
'That's always the beginner's luck,' said Beatrice, pale and dishevelled. They all relapsed into the silence of . It was growing dusk when the train stopped at the tiny terminus. The station was a hive of activity, the arrival of this train being the daily event at that end of the world. Mynors and the Suttons were greeted familiarly by several sailors, and one of these, Tom Kelly, a tall, man, with grey beard, small grey eyes, a wrinkled skin of red mahogany, and an enormous fist, was introduced to Anna. He raised his cap, and shook hands. She was touched by the sad, kind look on his face, the impress of the sea. Then they drove to their , and here again the party was welcomed as being old and tried friends. A fire was burning in the parlour. Throwing herself down in front of it, Mrs. Sutton breathed, 'At last! Oh, for some tea.' Through the window, Anna had a glimpse of a deeply bay at the foot of cliffs below them, with a bold headland to the right. Fishing with flat red sails seemed to hang undecided just outside the bay. From cottage chimneys beneath the road blue smoke softly .
 
All went early to bed, for the weariness of Mr. and Mrs. Sutton seemed to communicate itself to the three young people, who might otherwise have gone into the village in search of adventures. Anna and Beatrice shared a room. Each inspected the other's clothes, and Beatrice made Anna try on the new serge skirt. Through the thin wall came the sound of Mr. and Mrs. Sutton talking, a high voice, then a reply, in continual alternation. Beatrice said that these two always discussed the day's doings in such manner. In a few moments Beatrice was snoring; she had the but steady and serious snore characteristic of some muscular men. Anna felt no to sleep. She lived again hour by hour through the day, and beneath Beatrice's snore her ear caught the undertone of the sea.
 
The next morning was as lovely as the last. It was Sunday, and every activity of the village was stilled. Sea and land were equally folded in a sunlit calm. During breakfast—a meal abundant in fresh herrings, fresh eggs and fresh rolls, eaten with the window wide open—Anna was puzzled by the singular of her friends to one another and to her. They were as polite as though they had been strangers; they chatted , were full of , and as anxious to give happiness as to enjoy it. She thought at first, so unusual was it to her as a feature of domestic privacy, that this demeanour was , or at any rate a somewhat exaggerated punctilio due to her presence; but she soon came to see that she was mistaken. After breakfast Mr. Sutton suggested that they should attend the Wesleyan Chapel on the hill leading to the . Here they met the sailors of the night before, arrayed now in marvellous blue Melton coats with velveteen collars. Tom Kelly walked back with them to the beach, and showed them the yacht 'Fay' which Mynors had arranged to hire for mackerel-fishing; it lay on the sands in new white paint. All the afternoon they on the cliffs, doing nothing whatever, for this Sunday was tacitly regarded, not as part of the holiday, but as a preparation for the holiday; all felt that the holiday, with its proper and appointed delights, would really begin on Monday morning.
 
'Let us go for a walk,' said Mynors, after tea, to Beatrice and Anna. They stood at the gate of the lodging-house. The old people were resting within.
 
'You two go,' Beatrice replied, looking at Anna. 'You know I hate walking, Henry. I'll stop with mother and dad.'
 
Throughout the day Anna had been conscious of the fact that all the Suttons showed a tendency, slight but perceptible, to treat Henry and herself as a pair desirous of opportunities for being alone together. She did not like it. She flushed under the passing glance with which Beatrice accompanied the words: 'You two go.' Nevertheless, when Mynors remarked: 'Very well,' and his eyes sought hers for a consent, she could not refuse it. One part of her nature would have preferred to find an excuse for staying at home; but another, and a stronger, part insisted on seizing this offered joy.
 
They walked straight up out of the village toward the high coast-range which stretches peak after peak from Port Erin to Peel. The and lanes wound about the hillside, passing here and there small, cottages of stone, with children, , and dogs at the doors, all embowered in huge fuchsia trees. Presently they had the limit of habitation and were on the naked flank of Bradda, following a narrow track which crept amid short mossy turf of the most vivid green. Nothing seemed to flourish on this exposed height except bracken, sheep, and that, from a distance, resembled sheep; there was no tree, scarcely a ; the immense contours, , grim, and unrelieved, rose in melancholy and against the sky: the hand of man could no harvest from these smooth but slopes; they had never relented, and they would never relent. The spirit was by the thought that here, to the furthest of more and more intricate, simple and strong souls would always find and .
 
Mynors bore to the left for a while, striking across the in the direction of the sea. Then he said:
 
'Look down, now.'
 
The little bay lay like an oblong swimming-bath five hundred feet below them. The surface of the water was like glass; the , with its phalanx of boats up in Sabbath tidiness, glittered like marble in the living light, and over this marble black dots moved slowly to and fro; behind the boats were the houses—dolls' houses—each with a curling wisp of smoke; further away the railway and the high road ran out in a black and white line to Port St. Mary; the sea, a pale grey, all; the southern sky had a faint , rising to delicate . The sight of this haven at rest, shut in by the restful sea and by great moveless hills, a calm within a calm, aroused profound emotion.
 
'It's lovely,' said Anna, as they stood gazing. Tears came to her eyes and hung there. She wondered that scenery should cause tears, felt ashamed, and turned her face so that Mynors should not see. But he had seen.
 
'Shall we go on to the top?' he suggested, and they set their faces northwards to climb still higher. At length they stood on the rocky summit of Bradda, seven hundred feet from the sea. The Hill of the Night Watch lifted above them to the north, but on east, south, and west, the was bounded only by the ocean. The coast-line was revealed for thirty miles, from Peel to Castletown. Far to the east was Castletown Bay, large, shallow and inhospitable, its floor strewn with a thousand unseen ; the lighthouse at Point flashed dimly in the dusk; thence the beach curved nearer in an immense arc, without a sign of life, to the little of Port St. Mary, and out again into a tongue of land at the end of which lay the of Man with its single white cottage and cart-track. The dangerous Calf Sound, where the tide is forced to run nine hours one way and three the other, seemed like a grey ribbon, and the Chicken Rock like a tiny pencil on a vast slate. Port Erin was hidden under their feet. They looked . The darkening sky was a of purple and scarves drawn , as though by the finger of God, across a sheet of pure saffron. These of the sunset faded in every direction to the same soft azure which filled the south, and one star twinkled in the illimitable field. Thirty miles off, on the horizon, could be discerned the Mourne Mountains of Ireland.
 
'See!' Mynors exclaimed, her arm.
 
The huge disc of the moon was rising in the east, and as this mild lamp passed up the sky, the sense of universal increased. Lovely, Anna had said. It was the loveliest sight her eyes had ever beheld, a panorama of pure beauty all imagined visions. It overwhelmed her, thrilled her to the heart, this revelation of the loveliness of the world. Her thoughts went back to Hanbridge and Bursley and her life there; and all the remembered scenes, bathed in the glow of a new ideal, seemed to lose their pain. It was as if she had never been really unhappy, as if there was no real unhappiness on the whole earth. She perceived that the monotony, the austerity, the melancholy of her existence had been sweet and beautiful of its kind, and she recalled, with a sort of rapture, hours of companionship with the beloved Agnes, when her father was equable and pacific. Nothing was ugly nor mean. Beauty was everywhere, in everything.
 
In silence they began to , perforce walking quickly because of the steep gradient. At the first cottage they saw a little girl in a mob-cap playing with two kittens.
 
'How like Agnes!' Mynors said.
 
'Yes. I was just thinking so,' Anna answered.
 
'I thought of her up on the hill,' he continued. 'She will miss you, won't she?'
 
'I know she cried herself to sleep last night. You mightn't guess it, but she is extremely sensitive.'
 
'Not guess it? Why not? I am sure she is. Do you know—I am very fond of your sister. She's a simply child. And there's a lot in her, too. She's so quick and bright, and somehow like a little woman.'
 
'She's exactly like a woman sometimes,' Anna agreed. 'Sometimes I fancy she's a great deal older than I am.'
 
'Older than any of us,' he corrected.
 
'I'm glad you like her,' Anna said, content. 'She thinks all the world of you.' And she added: 'My word, wouldn't she be vexed if she knew I had told you that!'
 
This of Agnes brought them into closer , and they talked the more easily of other things.
 
'It will freeze to-night,' Mynors said; and then, suddenly looking at her in the : 'You are feeling chill.'
 
'Oh, no!' she protested.
 
'But you are. Put this muffler round your neck.' He took a muffler from his pocket.
 
'Oh, no, really! You will need it yourself.' She drew a little away from him, as if to avoid the muffler.
 
'Please take it.'
 
She did so, and thanked him, tying it loosely and untidily round her throat. That feeling of the untidiness of the muffler, of its being something strange to her skin, something with the rough of masculinity, which no one could detect in the gloom, was in itself pleasant.
 
'I Mrs. Sutton has a good fire burning when we get in,' he said.
 
She thought with of the warm, bright, , the supper, and the good-natured conversation. Though the walk was nearly at an end, other delights were in store. Of the holiday, thirteen complete days yet remained, each to be as happy as the one now closing. It was an age! At last they entered the human of the village. As they walked up the steps of their lodging and he opened the door for her, she quickly drew off the muffler and returned it to him with a word of thanks.
 
On Monday morning, when Beatrice and Anna came downstairs, they found the breakfast odorously cooling on the table, and nobody in the room.
 
'Where are they all, I wonder. Any letters?' Beatrice said.
 
'There's your mother, out on the front—and Mr. Mynors too.'
 
Beatrice threw up the window, and called: 'Come along, Henry; come along, mother. Everything's going cold.'
 
'Is it?' Mynors cheerfully replied. 'Come out here, both of you, and begin the day properly with a dose of .'
 
'I cold bacon,' said Beatrice, glancing at the table, and they went out into the road, where Mrs. Sutton kissed them with as much fervour as if they had arrived from a long journey.
 
'You look pale, Anna,' she remarked.
 
'Do I?' said Anna, 'I don't feel pale.'
 
'It's that long walk last night,' Beatrice put in. 'Henry always goes too far.'
 
'I don't——' Anna began; but at that moment Mr. Sutton, and , joined the party.
 
'Henry,' he said, without greeting anyone, 'hast noticed those half-finished houses down the road yonder by the ""? I've been having a chat with Kelly, and he tells me the fellow that was building them has gone bankrupt, and they're at a stand-still. The Receiver wants to sell 'em. In fact Kelly says they're going cheap. I believe they'd be a good spec.'
 
'Eh, dear!' Mrs. Sutton interrupted him. 'Father, I wish you would leave your specs alone whe............