We sighted land, the dim yet rich coast of Ireland, about
sunset, and I leaned on the bulwark and took it in. "It doesn't look
like much, does it?" I heard a voice say, beside me; whereupon, turning,
I found Grace Mavis at hand. Almost for the first time she had her veil
up, and I thought her very pale.
"It will be more tomorrow," I said.
"Oh yes, a great deal more."
"The first sight of land, at sea, changes everything," I went on. "It
always affects me as waking up from a dream. It's a return to reality."
For a moment she made me no response; then she said "It doesn't look very
real yet."
"No, and meanwhile, this lovely evening, one can put it that the dream's
still present."
She looked up at the sky, which had a brightness, though the light of the
sun had left it and that of the stars hadn't begun. "It _is_ a lovely
evening."
"Oh yes, with this we shall do."
She stood some moments more, while the growing dusk effaced the line of
the land more rapidly than our progress made it distinct. She said
nothing more, she only looked in front of her; but her very quietness
prompted me to something suggestive of sympathy and service. It was
difficult indeed to strike the right note--some things seemed too wide of
the mark and others too importunate.
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