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A woman can't know till she loves another man. Oh, Nick, I can't get on without you not quite without you. I've been trying and every day it grows harder instead of easier. Nothing matters but you. I'm not Paolo di Sereno's real wife, and he hates me. So it's not wrong to love you, Nick, or for you to love me. Only, we we " "You don't have to get on without me," said Nick.
"Sereno's gone to harness; for, pa, you must take one horse, and you can send Luke back with it Friday, so's we can get the things home. What do we want of two horses down here, at two and ninepence a day? I guess I know!" So Eli yielded; but before his wife appeared, he had turned his back on the sea, where the rose of dawn was fast unfolding.
It's a good deal of an undertakin', come to think it all over. I dunno's I care about goin'." "Why, father! After you've thought about it so many years, an' Sereno's got the tents strapped up, an' all! You must be crazy!" "Well," said the farmer, gently, as he rose and went to carry the milk-pails into the pantry, calling coaxingly, as he did so, "Kitty! kitty! You had your milk?
Pike came calling to them from the beach, with dramatic shouts, emphasized by the waving of her ample apron, "Supper's ready! Sereno's built a bum-fire, an' I've made some tea!" Then they slowly made their way back to the tents, and sat down to the evening meal. Sereno seemed content, and Mrs. Pike was bustling and triumphant; the familiar act of preparing food had given her the feeling of home.
She had been in a train when she read the story of Laska. She saw herself sitting safely and cosily in a stateroom, all panelled satinwood and green velvet. Now Blindly she started to run. It was useless, she knew, for the fence was certain to go, and she could no more outrun that black billow of death than she could outrace one of Paolo di Sereno's aeroplanes.
She did not want to stop playing, because if it had come to earnest, deep realities, as she was afraid it must come now, there would be no place for Nick Hilliard in her future the future of Paolo di Sereno's disillusioned wife. "Still, here under these trees, I could tell him everything better than I could tell it anywhere else, and make him understand, and even forgive," she thought.
"My! if there ain't goin' to be trouble between Mary Lamson an' Sereno's Hattie, I'll miss my guess!" said a matron, with an appreciative wag of her purple-bonneted head. "They've either on 'em canned up more preserves 'n Tiverton an' Sudleigh put together, an' Mary's got I dunno what all among 'em! squash, an' dandelion, an' punkin with lemon in't. That's steppin' acrost the bounds, I say!
I wonder if the converse holds true?" So I had to mention Norsk and Norwegians. And, again: "All the peasantry in Mallorca seem to know one tune and one only, in a minor key, with a compass of three whole tones. It is not unmusical, but, like the sereno's chant, it is hard to catch." As I happened to know the air, the least I could do was to dot it down in her note-book when she asked me to.
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