was not of that class.
It was as though a thin, hard mask had been formed and closely moulded
upon it, as the action of the sea overlays some sorts of soft rock with a
surface thin as paper but as hard as granite. In spite of the hardness,
the features were not really strong. There was refinement in them,
however, of the same kind which the daughter had, and as much, though
less pleasing. A fern--a spray of maiden's-hair--loses much of its beauty
but none of its refinement when petrified in limestone or made fossil in
coal.

As they sat there, side by side, mother and daughter, where they had sat
every day for a week or more, they had very little to say. They had
exhausted the recapitulation of Clare's illness, during the first days
of her convalescence. It was not the first time that they had been in
Amalfi, and they had enumerated its beauties to each other, and renewed
their acquaintance with it from a distance, looking down from the
terrace upon the low-lying town, and the beach and the painted boats,
and the little crowd that swarmed out now and then like ants, very busy
and very much in a hurry, running hither and thither, disappearing
presently as by magic, and leaving the shore to the sun and the sea. The
two had spoken of a little excursion to Ravello, and they meant to go
thither as soon as they should be strong enough; but that was not yet.
And meanwhile they lived through the quiet days, morning, meal times,
evening, bed time, and round again, through the little hotel's programme
of possibility; eating what was offered them, but feasting royally on
air and sunshine and spring sweetness; moistening their lips in strange
southern wines, but drinking deep draughts of the rich southern
air-life; watching the people of all sorts and of many conditions, who
came and stayed a day and went away again, but social only in each
other's lives, and even that by sympathy rather than in speech. A corner
of life's show was before them, and they kept their places on the
vine-sheltered terrace and looked on. But it seemed as though nothing
could ever possibly happen there to affect the direction of their own
quietly moving existence.

Seeing that her daughter did not say anything in answer to the remark
about the past being written in a foreign language, Mrs. Bowring looked
at the distant sky-haze thoughtfully for a few moments, then opened her
book again where her thin forefinger had kept the place, and began to
read. The