notebook, while she took up the work of building the stone heap—it grew higher under her light fingers.
“Read it!” she said, when the scribbling of the pencil stopped, and he read:
“Now the vexed clouds, wind-driven, spread wings of white,
Long leaning wings across the sea and land;
The waves creep back, bequeathing to our sight
The treasure-house of their deserted sand;
And where the nearer waves curl white and low,
Knee-deep in swirling brine the slow-foot shrimpers go.
Pale breadth of sand where clamorous gulls confer
Marked with broad arrows by their planted feet,
White rippled pools where late deep waters were,
And ever the white waves marshalled in retreat,
And the grey wind in sole supremacy
O’er opal and amber cold of darkening sky and sea.”
“Opal and amber cold,” she repeated; “it’s not like that now. It’s sapphire and gold and diamonds.”
“Yes,” he said; “but that was how it was last week”
“Before I came”
“Yes, before you came;” his tone put a new meaning into her words.
“I’m glad I brought good weather,” she said cheerfully, and the little stone heap rattled itself down under her hand.
