the critical reader that I had already devoted far too much to the little episode of which my story gives an account, but to this I can only reply that the event justified me. We sighted land, the dim yet rich coast of Ireland, about sunset and I leaned on the edge of the ship and looked at it. 'It doesn't look like much, does it?' I heard a voice say, beside me; and, turning, I found Grace Mavis was there. Almost for the first time she had her veil up, and I thought her very pale.
'It will be more to-morrow,' I said.
'Oh yes, a great deal more.'
'The first sight of land, at sea, changes every thing,' I went on. 'I always think it's like waking up from a dream. It's a return to reality.'
For a moment she made no response to this; then she said, 'It doesn't look very real yet.'
'No, and meanwhile, this lovely evening, the dream is still present.'
She looked up at the sky, which had a brightness, though the light of the sun had left it and that of the stars had not come out. 'It is a lovely evening.'
'Oh yes, with this we shall do.'
She stood there a while longer, while the growing dusk effaced the line of the land more rapidly than our progress made it distinct. She said nothing more, she only looked in front of her; but her very quietness made me want to say something suggestive of sympathy and service. I was unable to think what to say—some things seemed too wide of the mark and others too importunate. At last, unexpectedly, she appeared to give me my chance. Irrelevantly, abruptly she broke out:
