an ever be;

A shore with deep indented bays,
And o'er the gleaming water-ways
A glimpse of Islands in the haze;

A faced bronzed dark to red and gold,
With mountain eyes that seem to hold
The freshness of the world of old;

A shepherd's crook, a coat of fleece,
A grazing flock--the sense of peace,
The long sweet silence--this is Greece."

The accompaniment continued for a moment alone, whispering remoteness.
Then, like a voice far off in a blue distance, there came again from
Rosamund, more softly and with less pressure:

"----The sense of peace,
The long sweet silence--this is Greece!
This is Greece!"

It was just then that Dion saw Mrs. Clarke. She had, perhaps, been
sitting down; or, possibly, some one had been standing in front of her
and had hidden her from him; for she was not far off, and he wondered
sharply why he had not seen her till now, why, till now, she had
refrained from snatching him away from his land of the early morning.
There was to him at this moment something actually cruel and painful in
her instant suggestion of Stamboul. Yet she was not looking at him, but
was directing upon Rosamund her characteristic gaze of consideration,
in which there was a peculiar grave thoroughness. A handsome, fair
young man, with a very red weak mouth, stood close to her. Echo was
just beyond. Without speaking, Mrs. Clarke continued looking at Rosamund
intently, when the music evaporated, and Greece faded away into the
shining of that distance which hides our dreams. And Dion noted again,
with a faint creeping of wonder and of doubt, the strange haggardness of
her face, which, nevertheless, he had come to think almost beautiful.

The fair young man spoke to her, bending and looking at her eagerly.
She turned her head slowly, and as if reluctantly towards him, and
was evidently listening to what he said, listening with that apparent
intentness which was characteristic of her. She was dressed in black
and violet, and wore a large knot of violets in her corsage. Round her
throat was clasped an antique necklace of dull, unshining gold, and
dim purple stones, which looked beautiful, but almost weary with
age. Perhaps they had lain for years in some dim bazaar of Stamboul,
forgotten under heaps of old stuffs. Dion thought of them as slumbering,
made drowsy and finally unconscious by the fumes of incense and the
exhalations from diap