— half coming to the conclusion that her place henceforth was
only at the last, and that the world and she had nothing to do
with each other. The tide of life and gaiety seemed to have
thrown her on one side, as something that could not swim with
it, and to be rushing past too strongly and swiftly for her
slight bark ever to launch upon it again. Perhaps the shore
might be the safest and happiest place; but it was sober in
the comparison; and, as a stranded bark might look upon the
white sails flying by, Fleda saw the gay faces and heard the
light tones with which her own could so little keep company.
But as little they with her. Their enjoyment was not more
foreign to her than the causes which moved it were strange.
Merry? — she might like to be merry, but she could sooner
laugh with the north wind than with one of those vapid faces,
or with any face that she could not trust. Conversation might
be pleasant, but it must be something different from the noisy
cross-fire of nonsense that was going on in one quarter, or
the profitless barter of nothings that was kept up on the
other side of her. Rather Queechy and silence, by far, than
New York and _this!_

And through it all, Miss Tomlinson talked on and was happy.

"My dear Fleda! what are you back here for?" said Florence,
coming up to her.

"I was glad to be at a safe distance from the fire."

"Take a screen — here! Miss Tomlinson, your conversation is
too exciting for Miss Ringgan; look at her cheeks! I must