And then she scrambled down from this height to the water's edge; and here she discovered a most sequestered little haven—a small, semicircular bay sheltered from the land-winds by rocks and trees, while the pellucid green sea broke in ripples of silver along the cream-white and lilac pebbles. A most solitary spot—quiet, and sunny, and peaceful: she began to think that whatever might be done with other portions of her property, she would keep this little bit of picturesque seclusion entirely for herself. This, surely, could be of no use to anybody—the pebbly beach, the rocks purple-black with mussels or olive-green with seaweed, the clear water whispering along the shore. Political economy should not follow her hither; here would be her place of rest—her place of dreaming—when she was done with studying the wants of others, and wished to commune with her own soul.
But all of a sudden she found she was not alone: an apparition had become visible—a solitary figure that had quietly come round the rocky point, and was now regarding her with dumb apprehension. This was a girl of about five-and-twenty, who had something of an Irish cast of face: fair-complexioned, freckled, a tilted nose, grey eyes wide-apart and startled-looking, and curly light-brown hair that was mostly concealed by the scarlet shawl she wore round her head and shoulders. She regarded Miss Stanley with obvious fear, and did not advance; her eyes, that had the timidity of a wild animal in them, had something more than that; they seemed to say that the poor creature was but half-witted. Nevertheless the young proprietress instantly concluded that this was one of "her people," and that, therefore, she was bound to make friends.
"Good morning!" said Mary, and she brought her wonder-working smile and dimple into play, as well she knew how.
A quick light, of wonder and pleasure, sprang into the girl's eyes. She came forward a little way, timidly. She smiled, in a pleading sort of fashion. And then she ventured to hold out her hand, timidly. Mary went forward at once.
"I am very glad to make your acquaintance," she said, in her bland tones, "and you must tell me who you are."
But the girl, taking the hand that was offered to her, bent one knee and made a humble and profound curtsy (where she could have learnt this trick it is hard to say), and then she uplifted her smiling and beseeching eyes to the great lady (who was considerably taller than she), and still held her hand, and repeated several times something that sounded like Bentyurna veen—Bentyurna veen.[#]
[#] Baintighearna mhin—the gentle lady.
"I am very sorry I don't know Gaelic," said Mary, rather disappointedly. "Don't you know a little English?"
The girl still held her hand, and patted it; and looked into her face with pleased and wistful eyes; and again she was addressed as Bentyurna veen. And then, in this unknown tongue, something more was said, of which Mary could only make out the single word Heimra.
"Oh, do you come from Heimra island?" she asked, quickly.