and full of a
half-unconscious, wistful longing, as if a prisoned soul behind them
were vainly trying to reveal itself.

Reeves could find out nothing of her from herself, for she responded
to his tentative questions about the place in the briefest fashion.
Afterwards he interviewed Mrs. Fraser cautiously, and ascertained that
the girl's name was Helen Fraser, and that she was Angus's niece.

"Her father and mother are dead and we've brought her up. Helen's a
good girl in most ways--a little obstinate and sulky now and then--but
generally she's steady enough, and as for work, there ain't a girl in
Bay Beach can come up to her in house or field. Angus calculates she
saves him a man's wages clear. No, I ain't got nothing to say against
Helen."

Nevertheless, Reeves felt somehow that Mrs. Fraser did not like her
husband's niece. He often heard her scolding or nagging Helen at her
work, and noticed that the latter never answered back. But once, after
Mrs. Angus's tongue had been especially bitter, he met the girl
hurrying along the hall from the kitchen with her eyes full of tears.
Reeves felt as if someone had struck him a blow. He went to Angus and
his wife that afternoon. He wished to paint a shore picture, he said,
and wanted a model. Would they allow Miss Fraser to pose for him? He
would pay liberally for her time.

Angus and his wife had no objection. They would pocket the money, and
Helen could be spared a spell every day as well as not. Reeves told
Helen of his plan himself, meeting her in the evening as she was
bringing the cows home from the low shore pastures beyond the marsh.
He was surprised at the sudden illumination of her face. It almost
transfigured her from a plain, sulky-looking girl into a beautiful
woman.

But the glow passed quickly. She assented to his plan quietly, almost
lifelessly. He walked home with her behind the cows and talked of the
sunset and the mysterious beauty of the bay and the purple splendour
of the distant coasts. She listened in silence. Only once, when he
spoke of the distant murmur of the open sea, she lifted her head and
looked at him.

"What does it say to you?" she asked.

"It speaks of eternity. And to you?"

"It calls me," she answered simply, "and then I want to go out and
meet it--and it hurts me too. I can't tell how or why. Sometimes it
makes me feel as if I were asleep and wanted to wake and didn't know
how."

She turned and looked out over the bay. A dying