Will she again,
From that death-like repose,
When those sealed eyes unclose,
Awake to pain?
Anon.
It was late in the afternoon of the same day that saw Gloria de la Vera swept away by the tide.
In the cosy cottage on the sandy islet, old Dame Lindsay sat over the bright, open wood fire, knitting busily; the tea-kettle hung over the blaze, singing merrily; the covered “spider” sat upon the hearth, emitting a spicy odor of baking ginger-bread; the black “pussy” was coiled up in one corner, and the white puppy in the other.
The tea-table stood in the middle of the floor, set for two persons, gay with the best cups and saucers on the bright japanned waiter, and tempting with plates full of delicately sliced ham and cold bread, and a pretty print of fresh butter.
Dame Lindsay at length rolled up her knitting and laid it aside on the mantel-shelf; took off her spectacles and put them in their case, and that into her pocket, then picked up the little iron tongs and lifted the lid from the spider to examine the progress of her cakes, found them doing well, and covered them again.
Finally she went to the window and looked out across the sea to the shore where the wooded hills rolled backward to the western horizon, behind which the setting sun was dropping out of sight.