oved, I had grown so weak, to answer their
question, at last, with a half-involuntary admission in my own.

Ah, no! I assured myself that my attitude towards the Cradlebow was
sisterly--sisterly, merely--although I might have reflected that the
yearnings of that amiable affection had never, hitherto, in the ordinary
walks of life, constrained me to hem so many as a dozen
pocket-handkerchiefs for my brothers, which irksome task I cheerfully
performed as a surprise for the sailor boy, not to speak of a pair of
scarlet hose which I had already begun to knit, under Grandma's tuition.

And now the life in Wallencamp seemed never like real life to me, even in
the broadest daylight. It was like a dream--the sweet, warm, brightening
of the landscape; the vines growing over the low, brown houses; the lazy,
summer voices in the air; the skies, too, were a dream--and Luther, with
his ideally beautiful face and his quaintness and ardor and
unworldliness, was a part of the dream. I knew that when he went away, I
should follow him long in my thoughts, and wonder much concerning him;
that at home again with my own people, in gayer, different scenes, I
should never hear the wind blowing up strong at night, or see the winter
settling down gloomily, or watch the opening of another spring-time,
without following him afar and wondering, with a vague, sorrowful, tender
regret, what chance was befalling him in the world.

Then an incident occurred which changed, not me, perhaps, but the
complexion of my dream.

One afternoon, at low tide, I wandered down to the beach and ensconced
myself comfortably, with book and shawl, on the roof of Steeple Rock. The
rock was an old acquaintance of mine by this time.

There was a group of children playing, a little farther down the beach.
My eyes turned ever to them from the written page, following them with a
languid pleasure, as they revelled in the sand at the water's edge with
their bare brown feet and legs. I had a sense of safety, too, in their
proximity. I knew that they generally returned home passing by the place
where I was.

It was warm on the rock. I was very tired. As I lay there, I became only
conscious, at length, that my book was slipping out of my hand, and down
the shelving side of the rock, and I was too listless to attempt to
reclaim it. I heard a little, dull thud on the ground below, and a faint
flutter of leaves--and the long, white beach, the ragged cliffs, the
laughing child