Of course Cornelius had gone on painting all this time. He finished his Stolen Child, painted two other smaller and more simple pictures, and he sent in the three to the Academy.

"1 don't see why you should always send your pictures to the Academy," said Kate; "I don't think it is fair to the other Exhibitions."

Cornelius confessed that the argument had its weight.

"But then you see, Kitty," he added, "I cannot do less; they behaved so well to me last year about that trashy Happy Time: it really was a poor thing, and yet see how well they hung it—they did not think much of it, but they saw that it promised something for the future. Yes, they really behaved very well—so well that though I am certain they will reject the two minor pictures and only take in the Stolen Child, I feel I cannot do less than give them the chance of the three."

"You are too generous," sighed Kate; "you will never get on in the world with those disinterested notions, my poor brother—never; besides, I put it to your sense of justice, now, is it fair to the other Exhibitions?"

Cornelius said perhaps it was not, but added that he really could not do less, and persisted in his original intention. I remember, when the pictures were sent off, that he said to me,—

"My little girl, let this be a lesson to you! Always do that which you feel to be right, even though you should be a loser by it: depend upon it, it is much better to feel generous than mean."

But when was generosity appreciated in this world? The Hanging Committee accepted the two inferior pictures and rejected the Stolen Child. Cornelius was stung to the quick.

"If they had rejected the three pictures," he said, "I really could have borne it; I should have attributed it to want of room, or found some excuse for them. But to go and take the two inferior paintings, and reject the good one; to let it be thought—as it will be thought—by public and critics, that this is all the progress I have made since last year, it really is not fair."

"Not fair!" sarcastically replied Miss O'Reilly; "not fair, Cornelius! It is all of a piece with their behaviour to you from the beginning. I always thought you had an enemy there, Cornelius."

"But the Happy Time was accepted, Kate."

"Of course it was, just as the two little things have been accepted, to delude you and the public also with a show of impartiality of which you at least, Cornelius, are not the dupe, I trust. It is all jealousy, mean jealousy."

"It at least looks like it," replied Cornelius, sighing profoundly.

"Hanging Committee, indeed!" pursued Kate, whom never before had I seen so bitter and so ironical, "they deserve their name! Oh yes, hanging! Are their own pictures well hung? Oh dear no!—not at all—so impartial— very! Suppose they were hung instead of their pictures—in a row—not to hurt them, they are not worth it—but just to let us have a look at them!"

In short, Miss O'Reilly was in a great rage; and if ever this unfortunate and much-abused body got it, it was on this day, for having rejected "The Stolen Child" of Cornelius O'Reilly, Esq.

The two accepted pictures fetched ten pounds a-piece; the Stolen Child was sold to a picture-dealer for forty pounds.

"Go," indignantly said Cornelius to his favourite picture as they parted,—"go, you are nothing now, but he who painted you will give you a name yet!"

Four years had now elapsed since Cornelius had set forth on the conquest of Art with all the ardent courage of youth; and Art, alas! was still unconquered, and the triumph of victory was still a thing to come. He had anticipated difficulties, sharp and brief contests, but not this disheartening slowness, this powerlessness to emerge from the long night of obscurity. It irritated his impatient temper even more than the rejection of his picture. He did not complain, for there was nothing resembling querulousness in his nature; but he brooded over his disappointment, and resentfully too, as appeared from what he once said to me—

"If they think they'll prevent me from painting pictures, they'll find themselves wonderfully deceived!"

I am not sure that "they" meant the Hanging Committee; I rather think it represented that vague enemy at whom disappointed ambition grasps so tenaciously. Whatever it signified, Cornelius kept his word: he painted, and harder than ever; but fortune was ungracious. Two charming cottage scenes which he sent in on the following year were accepted, it is true, but did little or nothing for his fame. One critic said "they were really very nicely painted;" another "advised Mr. O'Reilly not to be quite so slovenly;" a third found out that as in one of the cottages there was a fiddle, it was a gross plagiarism of Wilkie's "Blind Fiddler," artfully disguised indeed by the fiddle not being played upon, and of course none of the characters listening to its music, but not the less evident to lynx-eyed criticism; a fourth declared that Mr. O'Reilly was a promising young artist, who, in a dozen years or so, could not fail to hold a very respectable place in Art; and a fifth—one of those venal characters who disgrace every profession—sent in his card and terms. Kate wanted her brother to give him a cutting reply; he said there was nothing more cutting than silence, and lit his cigar with Mr. —'s edifying letter.* [* A fact.]

"He does not complain," said Kate to me, "but I can see in his face there's something brewing."

I thought so too, and resolved to find it out. It was some time before I succeeded; but I did succeed, and one day, when Kate said with a sigh—

"I wish I knew what's the matter with that boy!"

I composedly replied—

"Cornelius wants to go to Rome."

"Nonsense!" she said, jumping in her chair, "what has put that into your head? Did he tell you?"

"No; but I am sure of it."

I spoke confidently; she affected to doubt me; but the same evening proved the truth of my conjecture. It was not in Miss O'Reilly's nature to turn round a thing, so, as we were all throe walking in the garden, enjoying the cool [air], she suddenly confronted her brother, and said bluntly—

"Cornelius, is it true that you want to go to Rome?"

He reddened, looked astonished, and never answered.

"Then it is true," she exclaimed with a sigh.

"Yes, Kate, it is, but how do you know it?"

"Midge told me."

"Daisy!" he turned round and gave me a piercing look. "Why, I never hinted anything of the sort to her."

"No, but she found it out; and what do you want to go to Rome for,
Cornelius?"

"To study, Kate. I have been too homely, too simple, and that is why I am slighted; I should like to go, to study, to try the historic style: but where is the use to talk of all this?"

He sighed profoundly.

"The historic style," cried Miss O'Reilly, kindling; "Cornelius, you have hit the true thing at last: depend upon it you have. Of course you have been too humble! give them something bold and dashing, and let us see what they'll say to that! Go to Rome, Cornelius, go to Rome."

"The means, Kate, the means!"

"Bless the boy! As if I had not money."

"Oh! Kate! you have done more than enough for me as it is," he replied, crimsoning; "it makes my blood boil to think that I shall soon be twenty- five—"

"Nonsense!" she interrupted hastily, "will you go to Rome, study the great masters, see all that painting has achieved of most glorious, become a great painter yourself—or stay at home and plod on?"

His varying countenance told how strong was the temptation: his look lit, his colour came and went like that of a girl.

"Yes or no?" decisively said Kate.

"Well, then,—yes," he replied desperately; "I know it is mean, but I cannot help it, the thought of it has for weeks kept me awake at night, and haunted me day after day."

"And you never told me," reproachfully interrupted his sister, "and never would if Midge had not found it out!"

He eluded the reproach by asking me how I had found it out. I could not satisfy him; instinct had guided me more than knowledge; the word Rome, uttered with stifled sigh; an impatient declaration that there was nothing to be done here; a long lingering over old engravings of which the originals were in Italy, were the signs which, often repeated and united to my intimate acquaintance with every change of his face, had showed me the secret thought of his heart.

"You must go at once," resolutely said Kate; "can you be ready next week?"

"I could be ready to-morrow," replied Cornelius, with eyes that lit.

There was a pang which he saw not on his sister's face; my heart fell to see how eager he was to go from us. Unconscious of this he continued—

"The sooner I go the better, is it not, Kate? for then, you know, I shall return the sooner, too."

"Very true," she sighed; and his departure was fixed for the following week.

He was in a fever for the whole of that week. For the first time, he was going to taste liberty: he was young, ardent, restless by nature, quiet by force of circumstances; no wonder the prospect enchanted him. I was in one sense happy to see him happy, but I felt acutely that he was going away from us. He was gay and cheerful, I did not want to sadden him with the sight of a grief I could not help feeling, and I shunned rather than sought his company. Thus, two days before the day fixed for his departure, instead of remaining with him and Kate in the back parlour where they sat talking by the open window, I went out into the garden to indulge in a good fit of crying. In the stillness of the evening I could hear every word of their discourse. Either they did not know this or they forgot it, for after dwelling enthusiastically on his prospects, Cornelius added suddenly—

"How unwell Daisy looks!"

"She is fretting about you. The poor child is fonder of you than ever,
Cornelius."

"Do you think so?" he earnestly replied.

"Of course I do. She frets, tries to hide it, and cannot; and you know,
Cornelius, it is only beauty looks lovely in tears."

"She is not a beauty, but she has fine eyes."

"Spite of which you cannot call her pretty, Cornelius."

He sighed and did not contradict it.

"I know you did not think so," continued Kate.

"Oh! Kate!" he interrupted with another sigh, "why, any one can see the poor child is only getting plainer as she grows up!"

"Never mind," cheerfully said Kate.

"But she may mind, and she will mind too. If the women slight and the men neglect her, how can she but mind it?"

"The plain have a happiness of their own," quietly replied Kate. "God looks kindly on them and they learn to despise the rude harshness of the world." With this she began talking to Cornelius of his journey.

I was then near fifteen. I remember myself well,—a thin, slim girl, awkward, miserably shy and nervous, with sunken eyes, a face more sallow than ever, and hair scarcely darker in hue than when Miriam Russell had aptly called it straw-coloured. I knew my own disadvantages quiet well, I was accustomed to them, and though I quailed a little when I heard Cornelius and Kate thus settle the delicate question of my looks, it was only for awhile. It is true that the taunts of Miriam had formerly exasperated me, because it was by her beauty that she had conquered and replaced me in the heart of Cornelius; but with her power vanished the sting of my plainness. The little emotion I felt was over when Cornelius stepped out into the garden to indulge in a cigar.

On seeing me, he looked much disconcerted. I daresay he thought I must be cut to the quick by what I had heard; for though he did not allude to it, he sat down on the wooden bench, made me sit by him, and was so unusually kind that I could not help being a little amused. I allowed myself to be petted for awhile, then I looked up at him and said, smiling—

"As if I minded it, Cornelius! As if I did not know that though I should grow ever so plain, you would still like me! As if I could think it would make any difference to you!"

He muttered, "Oh! of course not!" I continued—

"Kate says you are handsome, and I dare say you are; but if you had lost one eye, or had a great ugly scar across your face, or were disfigured in some dreadful way, it would make no difference to me, Cornelius."

He smiled, without replying: I resumed—

"Therefore, Cornelius, that does not trouble me much, but something else which Kate said does trouble me."

I paused, and looked at him; he seemed a little disturbed.

"What are you talking of, child?" he said; "what do you mean?"

"Kate said I was fonder of you than ever, Cornelius; it is true, very true, I love you more as I grow up, because I know your goodness better; but then something which you might conclude from that, Cornelius, is not true."

I looked up at him very earnestly.

"Child!" he said, astonished; "what are you talking and thinking of?"

"I am thinking, Cornelius, of a thing I have thought of for a year and more. I often wanted to tell you, but I never dared; I should like to tell you now, Cornelius, only I don't know how."

Cornelius looked perplexed.

"I would gladly help you," he observed, "if I only knew what it was about."

I could not help reddening.

"Suppose," he said hastily, "you write it to me when I am in Italy—eh,
Daisy?"

"I would rather say it than write it, Cornelius."

"Then say it, child."

"Well, then, Cornelius," I replied, a little desperately, "I will never be jealous of you again—there!"

"There!" he echoed, smiling, "is that the mighty secret?"

"Yes, Cornelius, that is it," I replied, with a beating heart.

"My good little girl," he said kindly, "I am glad you have such good resolves; but I must set you right. You talk of not being jealous any more, as you would talk of taking off a dress and never putting it on again."

"And should I, Cornelius, if it were old and worn out?"

"But is this one worn out?"

"I hope so. I think so."

"I hope so too."

But I could see he did not think it. I was anxious to convince him, and resumed—

"Cornelius, do you remember how insolent I was when papa lived?—how rude I showed myself to you when you came to see him?—how over-bearing to the servants?"

"You were a spoiled child, certainly; but you have got over that."

"I think I have, Cornelius. When I came here, I was rude to Deborah, who was good enough to bear with it for a long time; but one day Kate heard me, and she told me she thought it very mean and ungenerous to be rude to servants. She said she would not enjoin on me to apologize to Deborah; but she hoped that, for my own sake, I would do so. The next day I went down into the kitchen, and asked Deborah to forgive me."

"How did you like that?" asked Cornelius giving me a curious look.

"Not at all. It mortified me so much I could scarcely do it; but I was never rude to Deborah again."

"How is it I never heard of this story before?"

"I begged of Kate not to tell you. I could not bear that you should think me ungenerous and mean."

"And the moral of all that, Daisy?"

"That it is very mean to be jealous, Cornelius; very mean and ungenerous; and that I hope never to be so again. Do you still think I shall?" I added, glancing up at his face.

"I think," he replied, looking down into mine, "that there is a strange spark of austere ambition in you, strange in one so young: and that what it will lead to is more than I can tell."

"Cornelius, I don't feel ambitious; but I long to be good, and I hope God will help me."

"If that is not ambitious, I don't know anything about it," replied Cornelius; "but it is a very fine ambition, Daisy; and I am glad you have it; ay, and I respect you for it, too!"

I looked up at him, to make sure he did not speak in jest; but he seemed quite grave and in earnest. I felt much relieved; this matter had lain on my heart a year and more, yet I never could have spoken to him, had he not been going away. The passionate wish of making him give me a little more of his regard and esteem had, alone, loosened my tongue, that wish was now more than gratified by his words.

"Oh! Cornelius," I exclaimed, "how good of you not to laugh at me!"

"Poor child, did you expect I should?"

"I feared it."

He was gently reproving me for the fear, when Kate beckoned him in, and held a whispered conversation with him in the passage. Some mystery seemed afloat. I felt uneasy. When I bade Cornelius good-night that evening, he kissed me with a lingering tenderness that troubled me. Was not this, perhaps, a parting embrace? I fancied I detected unusual sadness in his gaze, and heard him suppress a sigh.

I said nothing; but I resolved not to sleep that night, sooner than run the risk of losing the adieu of Cornelius. Soon after I had retired to my room, I heard him and his sister come up too. It was scarcely ten; this unusually early hour confirmed me in my suspicion. I sat up in the dark. I heard twelve,—then one,—then two; and my power of keeping vigil failed me. Sleep is a pitiless tyrant in youth. I felt my eyes involuntarily closing. I took a resolve that was not without some meaning. I softly stole out of my room, sat down on the mat at the door of Cornelius, and, secure that he could not leave without my knowledge, I soon fell fast asleep. What might have been foreseen, happened: Cornelius, on leaving his room, stumbled over me. I woke; he stooped and picked me up, with a mingled exclamation of wonder and dismay.

"Daisy!" he cried, "are you hurt? What brought you here?"

"I wanted to bid you good-bye. I guessed you were going."

His room door stood half-open, and so did the window beyond it; the morning stirred the white muslin curtains, and early dawn was blushing in the grey sky. Cornelius drew me to that dim light, and gazed at me silently.

"How long have you been there?" he asked.

"Since two; I felt too sleepy to sit up in my own room, and I was so afraid you might go whilst I slept."

"Since two—and it is four! You foolish child! If I wanted to go quietly, it was only to spare your little heart some grief, and your poor eyes some tears."

"Cornelius, I shall not cry now. I shall wait until you are gone for that."

Attracted by the sound of our voices, Kate now opened her room door.

"Daisy?" she exclaimed.

"Yes," replied her brother, "Daisy, who has been sleeping at my door like a faithful watcher. Oh! Kate, you'll take care of her whilst I am away?"

"Yes, yes, of course; but don't stand losing your time there. Come down."

We went downstairs. Cornelius took a hasty meal; then a cab stopped at the door; his luggage was removed to it, and he stood ready to depart. His sister was to go with him to the station. They thought it better for me to stay behind, and I submitted. I kept my word—I did not cry—I went through the parting courageously. Cornelius seemed much moved. He took me in his arms, and repeatedly he embraced me, repeatedly he pressed me to his heart. He exhorted me to persevere in my studies, to be good and dutiful to Kate. Then he promised to write to me, called me his child, his dear adopted daughter, gave me another kiss, put me away, and departed. I saw him go, I heard the cab rolling down the street, not without sorrow, but without bitterness. To be separated from him was hard, no doubt, but to part with the consciousness of so much affection on his side, with the prospect of a happy re-union, with the conviction that his absence was to open to him a career of fortune and renown, was not a thing that could not be borne. I wept heartily, but I was not unhappy.

In two hours Kate returned; she entered the parlour, sat down, took off her bonnet, and began to cry.

"Well," she said, "he has his wish—he is gone—and how glad, how eager he was to go! Poor boy, he has had a dull, imprisoned life, and liberty is sweet. Besides, it is in their nature; they like to rove, every one of them; they like to rove, and once they are off, mother, sister, or wife may wait."

She cried again, but there never was a more firm, more cheerful nature.
She soon checked her tears, to say, with a sigh,—

"Now Midge, you must help me, for there is a wonderful deal to do. Well, child, don't open your eyes. I forgot I had not told you—we are going to leave."

"To leave!"

"Yes, my child, we must. I had money by me, to be sure; but not enough, and I was not going to let Cornelius travel otherwise than as an Irish gentleman, so I borrowed at interest. He will want for nothing, that is one comfort; but we must pinch, Daisy, and to begin I have let the house furnished to a single gentleman, who comes in next Saturday. He has agreed to keep Deborah, who is now too expensive a servant for me. That is why we must leave."

"Very well," I said, resolutely; "we shall take a little room somewhere, and I'll be your housemaid, Kate."

She smiled, and kissed me.

"Nonsense, child, we are not driven to that yet. You know your father left some property,—very little, it is true, but you will find it safe when you grow up. The house in which he died was his, and is yours now; it has not proved a very valuable possession, for nobody will live in it on account of its being so lone and bleak. Leigh is a cheap place, and you and I, Daisy, are going to Rock Cottage after to-morrow."

"To live in it, Kate?"

"Yes, to live in it. There is nothing to keep me here, once he is gone. I did not tell him this, as you may imagine, so there is no time to lose in packing up. That was what I meant by saying you should help me."

With the courage of a true heart, she rose at once and set to work. I aided her willingly; we made such good despatch, that three days after the departure of Cornelius we had left the Grove and reached Leigh. Miss Murray, with whom Cornelius and Kate had always kept up an occasional correspondence, had, through the medium of Abby, kindly provided our future home with the first necessaries of beds, chairs, and tables; the rest, Kate said, would come in time.

The village through which we passed looked the same quiet place I had left it five years before. Few changes had occurred; the only strangeness was that men and women whose faces I had not forgotten, stared at us, and knew me not.

"How very odd!" I said to Kate, "I am sure that was Mr. Jenning, who keeps the dancing academy. He ought to know me, ought he not, Kate? I was one of his pupils. Papa said I should know how to dance, for that it gave a graceful carriage. I believe he used to dance himself when he was quite a young man, but I never saw him. Do you feel uuwell, Kate?"

She made a sign of denial. I continued—

"Do you see that path, Kate? Well, it leads to my grandfather's house. I wonder if he still lives in it with Mrs. Marks and my cousin Edith! I will show you to-morrow the place where I felt tired, and Cornelius carried me to Ryde. Why, Kate, we need not go on; this is Rock Cottage; I forgot you did not know it."

"Yes, there it stood, the same isolated white-washed, low-roofed dwelling in its lone garden. My tears rushed forth as I saw again the home where I had been reared, and where my father had died. Kate opened the door, but as she crossed the threshold she turned deadly pale, and sank rather than sat in the nearest chair.

"Kate!" I cried, quite alarmed, "what is the matter with you?"

I passed my arm around her neck; she gave me a most sorrowful look, then laid her head on my shoulder, and cried as if her heart would break.

"Oh, Kate!" I said, much distressed, "he has promised to be back in two years, and indeed he will keep his word."

She did not seem to heed me.

"It was here," she murmured, "yes, it was here he died."

This time I looked at her silent and astonished.

"Oh, Daisy!" she cried, clasping her hands and looking up too, "is it possible that you neither know nor guess that I was to have been your father's wife, and that you ought to have been my child?"

Her passionate tone went through my very heart.

"You, Kate!" I said; "you!"

"Yes," she replied, weeping more slowly; "it was to have been—it was not—he died here alone, I was far away."

Miss O'Reilly made me feel very strangely. I had never known my mother. I drew closer to her, and after a while I said—

"Why did you not marry him?"

"He was poor, and I had the child to rear; I could not bear to bring two burdens upon him; it was pride, he thought it was mistrust, and married another; I had no right to complain, nor did I; but it was then I took to being so fond of the boy, just I suppose because he had cost me so dear."

"But why did you not marry Papa after Mamma died?" I inquired.

"He never asked me, child," and she bowed her head with sad and humble resignation; "I thought he would, and I should have been glad to have had him, but perhaps he could not quite forgive my having once preferred my little brother to my grown-up lover; perhaps he thought me altered, and no longer the pretty girl he had courted: whatever it was, he did not ask me; and yet how good and friendly it was of him to help me as he did to rear the boy for whom I had given him up! I sometimes think he liked me in his heart, for Cornelius has often told me how my name was the last he uttered; and I cannot help fancying he meant I was to have the care of you. Oh! Midge, Midge," she added, looking me in the face very wistfully, "I have loved you very dearly, because you were his child, but I have often remembered that you ought also to have been mine."

"If you had been Papa's wife, I mean his first wife," I said very earnestly, "I should have been the niece of Cornelius, should I not, Kate?"

"You would have been my child."

"And his niece too, Kate."

"Do not be always thinking of Cornelius, Daisy."

"Oh! Kate, Uncle Cornelius has such a pleasant sound!"

She caressed me sadly; then we rose, went over the house together, and finally surveyed the garden. All trace of man's art had vanished from the spot, on which nature had bestowed a beauty and wild grace its culture had never known. The hedge of gorse now enclosed but a green wilderness of high waving grass, weeds, and wild flowers. Other flowers there were none, and the tender shrubs uncared for, had perished, blighted by the keen sea-breeze; the pine trees alone still stood and looked the same as I had left them, over their changed domain. For awhile we looked down from the stone steps where Cornelius had found me lying so desolate, then Kate descended, and said to me—

"Daisy, we will not change much. We will spoil as little as we can the freshness of the place. I like that green grass, those weeds that hide the brown earth so well, those long trailing creepers and wild flowers. We will just clear the path, add a few of the plants we like, give the whole a look of home, and leave what is beautiful as we found it."

"Kate," I exclaimed, hastening down to the pine-trees, "here is the sea. You have not yet had a good view of it, do come and look. Do you remember how I got up on the table in the studio to get a sight of it? Oh! is it not a grand thing?"

She smiled at my enthusiasm, and sat down on the wooden bench, which still stood in its old place. My heart swelled as I remembered that there I had received my father's embrace, but I would not sadden her by recalling it; I shaded my eyes with my hand to hide my tears, and whilst they flowed I looked long and silently on that eternal ocean on which, for nearly five years, I had not gazed.

It still rolled its heavy waters with majestic calmness; they now looked dark as molten lead, a white line of surf marking where they broke on the beach. The day had been grey and cloudy, and the sun was setting veiled and without splendour. For awhile the heavy clouds resting on the low, sea-bound horizon, still wore a reddish tint, like the smouldering ashes of a spent fire. Like them too they suddenly grew pale. Light mists, advancing from the sea, shrouded the coast below, distinctness faded away from every object, and the penetrating chillness of evening began to spread upon the air. Kate rose; we went in; as we ascended the steps she turned hack, she looked on the wild garden, on the pine-trees whose dark and spreading branches now moved to the evening breeze with a low rustling sound, at that broad sky crossed by swift clouds and hanging over the sea, and with a sigh she said—

"It was just like him, to come and live here,—he always liked wild places."

We entered the house, there to spend a quiet subdued evening, talking of him who had scarcely left us, and to whose return I already looked forward.

In a week we were settled at Rock Cottage. A little black-eyed girl, answering to the name of Jane, was our only servant. We led a humble, yet happy, homely life, to which the thought of the absent one lent something of the charm we once had found in his presence.

Household matters occupied Kate, and the garden was her relaxation. It is a spot which, ever since the days of Eve, has, in one sense, been the paradise of woman. The curse of banishment that fell on both her and Adam touched her more nearly. After his fall Eden itself could no more have been the limit of his hopes and desires, but Eve, if allowed to do so, could have lingered in the happy place for ever. Her daughters still love what she loved, and wherever they dwell, in wild or in the city, there too are the flowers which Eve first tended in happy Eden.

I shared the tasks and the pleasures of Kate, but whereas the absence of Cornelius, though deeply felt, had changed little or nothing in her habits or external life, it opened to me a new existence. Hitherto my life and my feelings had slept in the shadow of the life and feelings of Cornelius. He influenced me completely, when least seeking to do so. I loved his sister, but she had not that power over me, and when I was parted from my friend, I seemed to have remained alone and to fall back perforce on myself.

But when one evil, one teaching fail, God sends the needful. He now gave me nature in those aspects, both sublime and beautiful, which she wore around the home of my childhood. From winds and waves, from aspects of sea and winning shore, from green solitudes and spots of wild beauty, 1 learned, though all unconsciously, pure and daily lessons.