she was seized upon by a great
feeling of freedom. She threw up her arms, filled her lungs with a
deep breath, and ran. There was not a soul to be seen. The town was
hers!

She made for a lonely spot on the cliff, where a stream fell in a
cataract on to the sand, and there was a rustic seat with a lovely
view of the bay. Beth dropped on to the seat out of breath and looked
curiously about her. The tide was high. The water, smooth, sullen,
swollen and weary, broke on the shore in waves so small that it seemed
as if the sea, tired of its endless task, were doing dispiritedly as
little as it dared, and murmuring at that. The curving cliffs on the
left looked like white curtains, closely drawn. The low grey sky was
unbroken by cloud or rift except low down on the horizon, where it had
risen like a blind drawn up a little to admit the light. It was a
melancholy prospect, and Beth shivered and sighed in sympathy. Then a
sparrow cheeped somewhere behind her, and another bird in the hedge
softly fluted a little roulade. Beth looked round to see what it was,
and at that moment the light brightened as if it had been suddenly
turned up. She looked at the sea again. The rift in the leaden sky had
lengthened and widened, and the first pale primrose of the dawn showed
beyond. A faint flush followed, and then it seemed as if the night sky
slowly rolled itself up and was put away, leaving a floor of silver,
deepening to lilac, for the first bright beam to disport itself upon.
Then the sea smiled, and the weariness of it, back and forth, back and
forth, passed into animation. Its smooth surface became diapered with
light airs, and moved with a gentle roll. The sullen murmur rose to a
morning song, and a boat with bare mast at anchor in the bay, the only
one in sight, rocked to the tune. A great sea-bird sailed by, gazing
down into the depths with piercing eyes, and a grey gull flew so close
to the water, it seemed as if his wings must dip at every flap. The
sky by this time was all a riot of colour, at which Beth gazed in
admiration, but without rapture. Her intellect acknowledged its
loveliness, but did not delight in it--heart and soul were untouched.
The spirit of the dawn refused to speak to her. She had exhausted
herself in her effort to induce the intoxication of devotion which had
come to her spontaneously the day before. The great spirit does not
want martyrs. Joy in beauty and goodness comes of a pure and tranquil
mind, not o