Edith was sorry her friend the fisherman was absent, for the old woman who kept his house was a virago; and, indeed, was sometimes thought insane. Although Edith's moral courage was great, she possessed that physical timidity and sensitiveness to outward impressions that belongs to the poetic temperament.
She lingered in her walk, watching the curlews, and listening to the measured booming of the waves as they touched the shore and then receded. The obvious reflection that comes to every mind perhaps came to hers, that thus succeed and are scattered the successive generations of men. No; she was thinking that thus arrive and depart the days of her solitary existence; thus uniformly, and thus leaving no trace behind. Will it be always thus? she sighed; and her eyes filled with tears. Her revery was interrupted by a rough voice behind her.
"What have you done, that God should grant you the happiness to weep?" said the old woman, who now stood at her side.
Edith was startled, for the woman's expression was very wild, but she answered mildly, "Is that so great a boon, mother, that I should deserve to lose it?"
"Ask her," she said, "whose brain is burning, and whose heart is like lead, what she would give for one moist tear. O God! I cannot weep."
Whatever timidity Edith felt when she first saw the malignant expression of the old woman's countenance, was now lost in pity. She knew that the poor creature's reason was impaired, and she thought this might be one of her wild moments.
She laid her hand gently on her arm, and said, with a smile, "Nanny, I have come on purpose to visit you. Let us go into the house, and you shall tell me what you think, and all you want to make you comfortable for the winter."
Nanny looked at Edith almost with scorn. "Tell you what I think!" she said. "As well might I tell yonder birds that are hovering with white wings in the blue sky. What do you know of sorrow? but you will not always be strangers. Sorrow is coming over you; I see its dark fold drawing nearer and nearer."
A slight shudder came over Edith, but she smiled, and said, soothingly, "I came to talk with you about yourself; let my fate alone for the present."
"Ah! no need to shake the glass," answered Nanny; "grief is coming soon enough to drink up your young blood. The cheek that changes like yours, with sudden flushing, withers soonest; not with age, no, not, like mine, with age, but blighted by the cold hand of unkindness; and eyes, like yours, that every emotion fills with sudden tears, soon have their fountains dry, and then, ah! how you will long and pray for one drop, as I do now!"