a curious, intent gaze--a far-off gaze, as though she were trying to
make something out.

"What do they hide, John?" asked Lance, indifferently.

"Sharp rocks and shifting sands," I answered.

"So do the Northern seas," he replied.

A soft, sweet voice said: "Every one has his own taste. I love the
country; you love the sea. I find more beauty in this bunch of lilac
than I should in all the seaweed that was ever thrown on the beach; to
me there is more poetry and more loveliness in the ripple of the leaves,
the changeful hues of the trees and flowers, the corn in the fields, the
fruit in the orchards, than in the perpetual monotony of the sea."

"That is not fair, Frances," cried Lance. "Say what you will, but never
call the sea monotonous--it is never that; it always gives on the
impression of power and majesty."

"And of mystery," I interrupted.

"Of mystery," she repeated, and the words seemed forced from her in
spite of herself.

"Yes, of mystery!" I said. "Think what is buried in the sea! Think of
the vessels that have sank laden with human beings! No one will know
one-third of the mysteries of the sea until the day when she gives up
the dead."