certain hour, with a curious regularity, the breeze came, generally
from Ischia, and turned it to vivacity. A temper that was almost
frivolous then possessed it, and it broke into gayeties like a
child's. The waves were small, but they were impertinently lively.
They made a turmoil such as urchins make at play. Heedless of
reverence, but not consciously impious, they flung themselves at the
feet of San Francesco, casting up a tiny tribute of spray into the
sun.

Then Vere thought that the Saint looked down with pleasure at them, as
a good old man looks at a crowd of laughing children who have run
against him in the street, remembering his own youth. For even the
Saints were young! And, after that, surely the waves were a little
less boisterous. She thought she noted a greater calm. But perhaps it
was only that the breeze was dying down as the afternoon wore on.

She often sat and wondered which she loved best--the calm that lay
upon the sea at dawn, or the calm that was the prelude to the night.
Silvery were these dawns of the summer days. Here and there the waters
gleamed like the scales of some lovely fish. Mysterious lights, like
those in the breast of the opal, shone in the breast of the sea,
stirred, surely travelled as if endowed with life, then sank away to
the far-off kingdoms that man may never look on. Those dawns drew away
the girl's soul as if she were led by angels, or, like Peter, walked
upon the deep at some divine command. She felt that though her body
was on the islet the vital part of her, the real "I," was free to roam
across the great expanse that lay flat and still and delicately
mysterious to the limits of eternity.

She had strange encounters there, the soul of her, as she went towards