CHAPTER XI

DEEP WATERS


Wild white roses that grew in the sandy stubble above the shore, little
orange-scented roses that straggled through the grass--they called to
something that ran in Columbine's blood, they spoke to her of the South.
She was sure that she would find those roses all about her feet when she
came to the end of the long voyage. She would see their golden hearts
wide open to the sun. For their fragrance haunted her day by day as she
floated down the long glassy stretches and rocked on the waveless
swells.

Sometimes she had a curious fancy that she was lying dead, and they had
strewn the sweet flowers all about her. She hoped that they might not be
buried with her; they were too beautiful for that.

At other times she thought of them as a bridal wreath, purer than the
purest orange-blossom that ever decked a bride. Once, too--this was when
she was nearing the end of the voyage--there came to her a magic whiff
of wet bog-myrtle that made her fancy that she must be a bride indeed.

At last, just when it seemed to her that her boat was gently grounding
upon the sand where the little white roses grew, she opened her eyes
widely, wonderingly, and realised that the voyage was over.