lapped lazily the crags below, the vast expanse beyond seemed unbroken
by ripple, heaving only in broad ponderable sheets, and rhythmically, as
if still in sleep. The air was filled with a luminous haze that caught
and held the direct sunbeams. In the deep calm that lay upon the sea, it
seemed to Islington that all the tenderness of culture, magic of wealth,
and spell of refinement that for years had wrought upon that favored
shore had extended its gracious influence even here. What a pampered and
caressed old ocean it was; cajoled, flattered, and feted where it lay!
An odd recollection of the turbid Stanislaus hurrying by the ascetic
pines, of the grim outlines of Deadwood Hill, swam before his eyes,
and made the yellow green of the velvet lawn and graceful foliage seem
almost tropical by contrast. And, looking up, a few yards distant he
beheld a tall slip of a girl gazing upon the sea,--Blanche Masterman.

She had plucked somewhere a large fan-shaped leaf, which she held
parasol-wise, shading the blond masses of her hair, and hiding her gray
eyes. She had changed her festal dress, with its amplitude of flounce
and train, for a closely fitting half-antique habit whose scant outlines
would have been trying to limbs less shapely, but which prettily
accented the graceful curves and sweeping lines of this Greyport
goddess. As Islington rose, she came toward him with a frankly
outstretched hand and unconstrained manner. Had she observed him first?
I don't know.

They sat down together on a rustic seat, Miss Blanche facing the sea,
and shading her eyes with the leaf.

"I don't really know how long I have been sitting here," said Islington,
"or whether I have not been actually asleep and dreaming. It seemed too
lovely a morning to go to bed. But you?"