from any tired baron in Wall Street. Her life was too full of quiet drama ever to be sluggish. No existence can be, that is made up of farewells and waitings and welcomings-home again, quite as that odd fellow Queer-Hat had observed. Oh, she loved it all and there was Ben, and she wouldn't have changed it, but
"Tamp, tamp, tamp!" It came through the window, and, "I've won. Ho! Cookee, can't you hustle that grub?"
She didn't obey the summons at once, but bent over the bowl again. And before her eyes it seemed for the moment to expand, until it became the blue, ever-widening, ever-retreating horizon of the ocean itself, rimming a golden sea. And before her eyes swam the peaks, all snow and rose, of fairy-like, ethereal islands, floating, vanishing, beckoning, on that golden, sun-smitten sea.
