A pause followed, during which we sat and watched the marvellous depth of the heavens, deep as I do not think I ever saw them before or since, covered with a stately procession of ever-appearing and ever-vanishing forms—great sculpturesque blocks of a shattered storm—the icebergs of the upper sea. These were not far off against a blue background, but floating near us in the heart of a blue-black space, gloriously lighted by a golden rather than silvery moon. At length my wife spoke.
“I hope Mr. Percivale is out to-night,” she said. “How he must be enjoying it if he is!”
“I wonder the young man is not returning to his professional labours,” I said. “Few artists can afford such long holidays as he is taking.”
“He is laying in stock, though, I suppose,” answered my wife.
“I doubt that, my dear. He said not, on one occasion, you may remember.”
“Yes, I remember. But still he must paint better the more familiar he gets with the things God cares to fashion.”
“Doubtless. But I am afraid the work of God he is chiefly studying at present is our Wynnie.”
“Well, is she not a worthy object of his study?” returned Ethelwyn, looking up in my face with an arch expression.
“Doubtless again, Ethel; but I hope she is not studying him quite so much in her turn. I have seen her eyes following him about.”
My wife made no answer for a moment. Then she said,