Magdalen Crawford , the fisherman 's niece , is no companion for you . You will be foolish , as well as disloyal , if you ever try to see me again . Go back to the beautiful , high-bred woman you love and forget me . Perhaps you think I am talking strangely . Perhaps you think me bold and unwomanly to speak so plainly to you , a stranger . But there are some circumstances in life when plain-speaking is best . I do not want to see you again . Now , go back to your own world . '' Esterbrook Elliott slowly turned from her and walked in silence back to the shore . In the shadows of the point he stopped to look back at her , standing out like some inspired prophetess against the fiery background of the sunset sky and silver-blue water . The sky overhead was thick-sown with stars ; the night breeze was blowing up from its lair in distant , echoing sea caves . On his right the lights of the Cove twinkled out through the dusk . `` I feel like a coward and a traitor , '' he said slowly . `` Good God , what is this madness that has come over me ? Is this my boasted strength of manhood ? '' A moment later the hoof beats of his horse died away up the shore . Magdalen Crawford lingered on the point until the last dull red faded out into the violet gloom of the June sea dusk , than which nothing can be rarer or diviner , and listened to the moan and murmur of the sea far out over the bay with sorrowful eyes and sternly set lips . The next day , when the afternoon sun hung hot and heavy over the water , Esterbrook Elliott came again to the Cove . He found it deserted . A rumour of mackerel had come , and every boat had sailed out in the rose-red dawn to the fishing grounds .
But down XXXXX a strip of sparkling yellow sand he saw Magdalen Crawford standing , her hand on the rope that fastened a small white dory to the fragment of a half-embedded wreck .
In at for into like on over than through with