speaking with vehemence in the heat of his recollection, had brought
before her a picture of that scene in his simple life; had shown her
how he lay, and how the Padrone lay, he listening, the Padrone, book
in hand, reading about the "mago africano." He had even told Vere of
their conversation afterwards, and how he had said that he would
always be free, that he would never be "stoppered up," like the "mago
africano." And when she had wondered at his memory growing still more
excited he had told her many other things of which his Padrone and he
had talked together, and had made her feel the life of the past on
Monte Amato as no cultured person, she believed, could ever have made
her feel it. But when she had sought to question him about her
father's death he had become silent, and she had seen that it would be
impossible to make him obey her and tell her all the details that she
longed to know.

To-night Vere could see no fishermen at work. The silver of the sea
below her was unbroken by the black forms of gliding boats, the
silence was unbroken by calling voices. And to-night she was glad that
it was so; for she was in the mood to be quite alone. As she sat there
very still she seemed to herself to be drawing nearer to the sea, and
drawing the sea to her. Indeed, she was making some such imaginative
attempt as her mother was making in the house--to become, in fancy at
least, one with something outside of her, to be fused with the sea, as
her mother desired to be fused with her. But Vere's endeavor was not
tragic, like her mother's, but was almost tenderly happy. She thought
she felt the sea responding to her as she responded to the sea. And
she was very glad in that thought.

Presently she began to wonder about the fishermen.