of pleasure and of pain had gone through her; for as the water caught the
graceful figure of the vessel, and the wind bellied out the sails, it
seemed to her as if some ship of her own hopes were going out between the
reefs to the open sea. What would her ship bring back again to her? Or
would anything ever come back?

The books of adventure, poetry, history, and mythology she had read with
her mother had quickened her mind, sharpened her intuition, had made her
temperament still more sensitive--and her heart less peaceful. In her
was almost every note of human feeling: home and duty, song and gaiety,
daring and neighbourly kindness, love of sky and sea and air and
orchards, of the good-smelling earth and wholesome animal life, and all
the incidents, tragic, comic, or commonplace, of human existence.

How wonderful love was, she thought! How wonderful that so many millions
who had loved had come and gone, and yet of all they felt they had spoken
no word that laid bare the exact feeling to her or to any other. The
barbarians who raised these very stones she sat on, they had loved and
hated, and everything they had dared or suffered was recorded--but where?
And who could know exactly what they felt?

She realised the almost keenest pain of life, that universal agony, the
trying to speak, to reveal; and the proof, the hourly proof even the
wisest and most gifted have, that what they feel they can never quite
express, by sound, or by colour, or by the graven stone, or by the spoken
word. . . . But life was good, ah yes! and all that might be
revealed to her she would pray for; and Philip--her Philip--would help
her to the revelation.

Her Philip! Her heart gave a great throb, for the knowledge that she was