"Oh, I am not visiting," she replied, "I brought these few flowers for the sick soldiers; will you take them?"
"Indeed I will." The old man held out his hand. "Do you want the basket back again?"
"Oh, no, there's no hurry for that, I will get it the next time I come," Lucia replied. "I mean to bring flowers every day or two for the soldiers."
"That is very kind of you," the old man smiled, "I'll take these right up."
Lucia nodded and turned to go back along the road. The sun was setting over the water, and below the bay beckoned invitingly. She looked and decided to go home that way.
She took a path that led to the water's edge. It was steep, for that part of the coast rose high above the water. She was tired when she reached the bottom and sat down to rest on the low stone wall.
The soft lapping of the water made her drowsy, and she slipped to the sand, leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes.
There was not a sound but the soothing voice of nature, the ripple of the water, the sighing of the wind and the occasional cry of a sea bird.
All the sounds together seemed to rock Lucia in a sort of lullaby, and it was not many minutes before she was asleep.
When she awoke it was quite dark and she was conscious of a difference in the voice of the water. A heavy regular splash, splash, grew nearer and nearer as she listened. If she had been accustomed to living near the water she would have recognized it as the rhythmic stroke of oars, but she did not, and it was not until a shape loomed up in the dusk a little farther down the beach that she realized it was a boat.