fragrance all around, and the yellow broom
bloomed on the cliffs.

As she sat there, Lillian was indeed a fair picture herself on that May
morning; the sweet, spirituelle face; the noble head with its crown of
golden hair; the violet eyes, so full of thought; the sensitive lips,
sweet yet firm; the white forehead, the throne of intellect. The
little fingers that moved rapidly and gracefully over the drawing were
white and shapely; there was a delicate rose-leaf flush in the pretty
hand. She looked fair and tranquil as the morning itself.

The pure, sweet face had no touch of fire or passion; its serenity was
all unmoved; the world had never breathed on the innocent, child-like
mind. A white lily was not more pure and stainless than the young girl
who sat amid the purple heather, sketching the white, far-off sails.

So intent was Lillian upon her drawing that she did not hear light,
rapid steps coming near; she was not aroused until a rich musical voice
called, "Lillian, if you have not changed into stone or statue, do
speak." Then, looking up, she saw Beatrice by her side.

"Lay down your pencils and talk to me," said Beatrice, imperiously.
"How unkind of you, the only human being in this place who can talk, to
come here all by yourself! What do you think was to become of me?"

"I thought you were reading to mamma," said Lillian, quietly.

"Reading!" exclaimed Beatrice. "You know I am tired of reading, tired
of writing, tired of sewing, tired of everything I have to do."

Lillian looked up in wonder at the beautiful, restless face.

"Do not look 'good' at me," said Beatrice, impatiently. "I am tired to
death of it all. I want some change. Do you think any girls in the
world lead such lives as we do--shut up in a rambling old farm house,
studying from morn to night; shut in on one side by that tiresome sea,
imprisoned on the other by fields and woods? How can you take it so
quietly, Lillian? I am wearied to death."

"Something has disturbed you this morning," said Lillian, gently.

"That is like mamma," cried Beatrice; "just her very tone and words.
She does not understand, you do not understand; mamma's life satisfies
her, your life contents you; mine does not content me--it is all vague
and empty. I should welcome anything that changed this monotony; even
sorrow would be better than this dead level--one day so like another, I
can never distinguish them."

"My dear Beatrice, think of what you are