She was conscious of a strange feeling of communion with the shifting, changeful waters.
As far as eye could see the great billows of the Atlantic, silver-crested in the brilliant moonlight, came tumbling shoreward, breaking at last against the inviolate cliffs with a dull, booming noise like the sound of distant guns.

Then came the suction of retreat, as the beaten waves were hurled backwards from the fierce headlands in a grey tumult of surging waters, while the big stones and pebbles over which they swirled clashed and ground together, roaring under the pull of the outgoing current--that "drag" of which any Cornish seaman will warn a stranger in the grave tones of one who knows its peril.
To right and left, at the foot of savage cliffs black against the silver moonlight, Nan could see the long combers roll in and break into a cloud of upflung spray, girdling the wild coast with a zone of misty, moonlit spray that must surely have been fashioned in some dim world of faery.
She sat very still, watching the eternal battle between sea and shore, and the sheer splendour of it laid hold of her, so that for a little while everything that troubled her was swept away.

For the moment she felt absolutely happy.
Always the vision, of anything overwhelmingly beautiful seemed to fill her soul, drawing with it the memories of all that had been beautiful in life.

And watching this glory of moon and sea and shore, Nan felt strangely comforted.

Maryon Rooke had no part in it, nor Roger Trenby.
But her love for Peter and his for her seemed one and indivisible with it.