She was not unhappy, because Joconda was good to her; because she had perfect health and strength, because she had no sorrow and took no thought, living a simple unconscious existence like any one of the northern birds that she was called after; but she was always restless; she always wanted something, but she never knew what; sometimes she would dive headforemost into the deep water and fancy she might find it there; sometimes she would get away into the moors in the great summer silence, and sit there alone and wonder, but nothing was very clear to her.
Without culture, neither wishes nor wonder are very intelligible, and Musa, though she had been forced to put letters together till she could read the names of the boats and the saints, and other familiar things, was very ignorant. Her mind was a blank,—as her soul was; all that was alive and strong in her, was physical life; life abundant, vigorous, untiring, beautiful, like the life of a forest animal.
The few fishing-cobbles that Santa Tarsilla owned, were out at sea; there was only one man left on the beach who was
