that she was not to communicate her foolish suspicion to the
other servants. But certainly the joy of their life in this House of
the Sea was not what it had been. And even Vere had had forebodings with
which Peppina had been connected. Perhaps the air of Italy, this clear,
this radiant atmosphere which seemed created to be the environment of
happiness, contained some subtle poison that was working in them all,
turning them from cool reason.

She thought of Emile, calling up before her his big frame his powerful
face with the steady eyes. And a wave of depression went over her, as
she understood how very much she had relied on him since the death of
Maurice. Without him she would indeed have been a derelict.

Again that bitter flood of curiosity welled up in her. She wondered
where Vere was, but she did not go to the girl's room. Instead, she went
to her own sitting-room. Yesterday she had been restless. She had felt
driven. To-day she felt even worse. But to-day she knew what yesterday
she had not known--Vere's solitary occupation. Why had not Vere told
her, confided in her? It was a very simple matter. The only reason why
it now assumed an importance to her was because it had been so carefully
concealed. Why had not Vere told her all about it, as she told her other
little matters of their island life, freely, without even a thought of
hesitation?

She sought the reason of this departure which was paining her. But at
first she did not find it.

Perhaps Vere wanted to give her a surprise. For a moment her heart grew
lighter. Vere might be preparing something to please or astonish her
mother, and Emile might be in the secret, might be assisting in some
way. But no! Vere's mysterious occupation had been followed too long.
And then Emile had not always known what it was. He had only known
lately.

Those long reveries of Vere upon the sea, when she lay in the little
boat in the shadow cast by the cliffs over the Saint's Pool--they were
the prelude to work; imaginative, creative perhaps.

And Vere was not seventeen.

Hermione smiled to herself rather bitterly, thinking of the ignorance,
of the inevitable folly of youth. The child, no doubt, had dreams of
fame. What clever, what imaginative and energetic child has not such
dreams at some period or other? How absurd we all are, thinking to climb
to the stars almost as soon as we can see them!

And then the smile died away from Hermione's lips as the great
tenderness