Her silky hair with snowflakes crowned.
She made no sign, she breathed no sound,
But the skyward road she had surely found.
CLARA G. DOLLIVER.
THREE FEATHERS.
BY WILLIAM BLACK, AUTHOR OF "A PRINCESS OF THULE."
CHAPTER XXIII. SOME OLD SONGS.
"Are you dreaming again, child?" said Mrs. Rosewarne to her daughter. "You are not a fit companion for a sick woman, who is herself dull enough. Why do you always look so sad when you look at the sea, Wenna?"
The wan-faced, beautiful-eyed woman lay on a sofa, a book beside her. She had been chatting in a bright, rapid, desultory fashion about the book and a dozen other things—amusing herself really by a continual stream of playful talk—until she perceived that the girl's fancies were far away. Then she stopped suddenly, with this expression of petulant but good-natured disappointment.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, mother," said Wenna, who was seated at an open window fronting the bay. "What did you say? Why does the sea make one sad? I don't know. One feels less at home here than out on the rocks at Eglosilyan: perhaps that is it. Or the place is so beautiful that it almost makes you cry. I don't know."