And she disappeared as swiftly as she had come.

The big man who got out of the boat could not claim Hermione's
immunity from gray hairs. His beard was lightly powdered with them,
and though much of the still thick hair on his head was brown, and his
figure was erect, and looked strong and athletic--he seemed what he
was, a man of middle age, who had lived, and thought, and observed
much. His eyes had the peculiar expression of eyes that have seen very
many and very various sights. It was difficult to imagine them not
looking keenly intelligent. The vivacity of youth was no longer in
them, but the vividness of intellect, of an intellect almost fiercely
alive and tenacious of its life, was never absent from them.

As Artois got out, the boat's prow was being held by the Sicilian,
Gaspare, now a man of thirty-five, but still young-looking. Many
Sicilians grow old quickly--hard life wears them out. But Gaspare's
fate had been easier than that of most of his contemporaries and
friends of Marechiaro. Ever since the tragic death of the beloved
master, whom he still always spoke of as "mio Padrone," he had been
Hermione's faithful attendant and devoted friend. Yes, she knew him to
be that--she wished him to be that. Their stations in life might be
different, but they had come to sorrow together. They had suffered
together and been in sympathy while they suffered. He had loved what
she had loved, lost it when she had lost it, wept for it when she had
wept.

And he had been with her when she had waited for the coming of the
child.