sat upon the beach. The sea foam ran to her feet, and the dead leaves swarmed about her back, and the rags blew about her face in the blowing of the wind.
"Now," said the King's daughter, and she named a holy name, "this is the most unhappy old crone between two seas."
"Daughter of a King," said the crone, "you dwell in a stone house, and your hair is like the gold, but what is your profit? Life is not long, nor lives strong; and you live after the way of simple men, and have no thought for the morrow and no power upon the hour."
"Thought for the morrow, that I have," said the King's daughter; "but power upon the hour, that have I not." And she mused with herself.
Then the crone smote her lean hands one within the other, and laughed like a seagull. "Home," cried she, "O daughter of a King, home to your stone house, for the longing is come upon you now, nor can you live any more after the manner of simple men. Home, and toil and suffer, till the gift come that will make you bare, and till the man come that will bring you care."
