The graceful yachts caught the sunshine, too, their hulls gleaming darkly, or dazzlingly white, their slender masts pencilled in light, against the trees, and standing out like threaded needles when they showed against the pale, clear sky. In the bright northern air, the artist would have complained that there was no atmosphere—no 'depth,' nor 'distance,' but only the distinct farness of the objects a long way off—nothing at all like atmospheric perspective.
"Isn't it a glorious day!" exclaimed Fanny, looking seaward at a white-sailed fishing-schooner, which scarcely moved in the morning air.
"It's a little bit too swept and garnished," answered Lawrence. "That is—for a picture, you know. It's better to feel than to look at, if you understand what I mean. It feels so northern, that when you look at it, it seems bare and unfinished without a little snow."
"But you like it, don't you?" asked the young girl, in prompt protest.
"Of course I do. What a question! I thought I'd been showing how much I liked it, ever since I got here."
