Passing strange are the ways of Fate. She, a beautiful thing and so frail, yet the daughter of a bleak New England coast, rigidly-nurtured; he the frank Gaul, from the genial shores of France. At the opposite poles, the world would say, and still not so far apart as that same world thinks. In ancestry, customs, and all outward things, unlike, yet akin in spirit and with the same clearness of vision.
An hour or two, all the converse he had ever had with her! Nevertheless he knew that that face with the dark eyes, sometimes roguish with laughter and lights of coquetry, again grave with wonder and mystery, yet always looking at him with that forthright glance, was the one he had been searching for, though unconsciously, all over the earth, even as he looked for the little old lady he had found too late. Too late? Yes, both too late.
If Fate could only have been kinder! Perhaps—if a year or two earlier— But she should be happy at any rate. And he—well, he had an hour or two—a meagre treasure to cherish, but those moments should be drops, fragrant with the double distilled quintessence of love .… they would sweeten an ocean of memories— But that would come later. (He looked above at the mountain.) Now he must get her away.
She was talking with Captain Brent.
"I'd say to forget the gold and sail away as fast as the North Star can carry us. But there are the others to think of—their wives and children—and some of them, like poor Old Joe, have lots of grandchildren too—and all are poor. I don't want it now—they can have all my share."
