hward,
in the shade of the steep mountain behind them; the sea was blue at
their feet, and quite still, but farther out the westerly breeze that
swept past the Conca combed it to crisp roughness; then it was less blue
to southward, and gradually it grew less real, till it lost colour and
melted into a sky-haze that almost hid the southern mountains and the
lizard-like head of the far Licosa.

A bit of coarse faded carpet lay upon the ground under the two ladies'
feet, and the shady air had a soft green tinge in it from the young
vine-leaves overhead. At first sight one would have said that both were
delicate, if not ill. Both were fair, though in different degrees, and
both were pale and quiet, and looked a little weary.

The young girl sat in the deep straw chair, hatless, with bare white
hands that held her work. Her thick flaxen hair, straightly parted and
smoothed away from its low growth on the forehead, half hid small fresh
ears, unpierced. Long lashes, too white for beauty, cast very faint
light shadows as she looked down; but when she raised the lids, the
dark-blue eyes were bright, with wide pupils and a straight look, quick
to fasten, slow to let go, never yet quite softened, and yet never
mannishly hard. But, in its own way, perhaps, there is no look so hard
as the look of maiden innocence can be. There can even be something
terrible in its unconscious stare. There is the spirit of God's own
fearful directness in it. Half quibbling with words perhaps, but surely
with half truth, one might say that youth "is," while all else "has
been"; and that youth alone possesses the present, too innocent to know
it all, yet too selfish even to doubt of what is its own--too sure of
itself to doubt anything, to fear anything, or even truly to pray for
anything. There is no equality and no community in virtue; it is only
original sin that makes us all equal and human. Old Lucifer, fallen,
crushed, and damned, knows the worth of forgiveness--not young Michael,
flintily hard and monumentally upright in his steel coat, a terror to
the devil himself. And youth can have something of that archangelic
rigidity. Youth is not yet quite human.

But there was much in Clare Bowring's face which told that she was to be
quite human some day. The lower features were not more than strong
enough--the curved lips would be fuller before long, the small nostrils,
the gentle chin, were a little sharper than was natural, now, from
illness, but