The little house stood in solitude, just above a low bank of
cliff whence the beach sank in sandy ridges. The verandah and thick pine
wood gave ample shade, and the beach all the sun and sea air needful to
tan little Gyp, a fat, tumbling soul, as her mother had been at the
same age, incurably fond and fearless of dogs or any kind of beast, and
speaking words already that required a glossary.
At night, Gyp, looking from her bedroom through the flat branches of the
pine, would get a feeling of being the only creature in the world. The
crinkled, silvery sea, that lonely pine-tree, the cold moon, the sky
dark corn-flower blue, the hiss and sucking rustle of the surf over the
beach pebbles, even the salt, chill air, seemed lonely. By day, too--in
the hazy heat when the clouds merged, scarce drifting, into the blue,
and the coarse sea-grass tufts hardly quivered, and sea-birds passed
close above the water with chuckle and cry--it all often seemed part
of a dream. She bathed, and grew as tanned as her little daughter, a
regular Gypsy, in her broad hat and linen frocks; and yet she hardly
seemed to be living down here at all, for she was never free of the
memory of that last meeting with Summerhay. Why had he spoken and put an
end to their quiet friendship, and left her to such heart-searchings
all by herself? But she did not want his words unsaid.
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