"What are you thinking of, Sophy?" asked Lionel, resting on the oar.

"Thinking!--I was not thinking."

"What then?"

"I don't know,--feeling, I suppose."

"Feeling what?"

"As if between sleeping and waking; as the water perhaps feels, with the
sunlight on it!"

"Poetical," said Vance, who, somewhat of a poet himself, naturally
sneered at poetical tendencies in others; "but not so bad in its way.
Ah, have I hurt your vanity? there are tears in your eyes."

"No, sir," said Sophy, falteringly. "But I was thinking then."

"Ah," said the artist, "that's the worst of it; after feeling ever comes
thought; what was yours?"

"I was sorry poor Grandfather was not here, that's all."

"It was not our fault: we pressed him cordially," said Lionel.

"You did indeed, sir, thank you! And I don't know why he refused you."
The young men exchanged compassionate glances.