the East.

The evening calm was different. There was, Vere thought, less of
heaven about it, but perhaps more of the wonder of this world. And
this made her feel as if she had been nearer to heaven at her birth
than she would be at her death. She knew nothing of the defilements of
life. Her purity of mind was very perfect; but, taking a parable from
Nature, she applied it imaginatively to Man, and she saw him covered
with dust because of his journey through the world. Poor man!

And then she pitied herself too. But that passed. For if the sea at
evening held most of the wonder of this world, it was worth the
holding. Barely would she substitute the heavenly mysteries for it.
The fishermen's boats were dreams upon a dream. Each sail was akin to
a miracle. A voice that called across the water from a distance
brought tears to Vere's eyes when the magic was at its fullest. For it
seemed to mean all things that were tender, all things that were
wistful, all things that trembled with hope--that trembled with love.

With summer Vere could give herself up to the sea, and not only
imaginatively but by a bodily act.

Every day, and sometimes twice a day, she put on her bathing-dress in
the Casa del Mare, threw a thin cloak over her, and ran down to the
edge of the sea, where Gaspare was waiting with the boat. Hermione did
not bathe. It did not suit her now. And Gaspare was Vere's invariable
companion. He had superintended her bathing when she was little. He
had taught her to swim. And with no one else would he ever trust his
Padroncina when she gave herself to the sea. Sometimes he would row
her out to a reef of rocks in the open water not too many yards from