"But hardly as you are," he commented, on her announcement she was ready.
"Let me help to put on your shoes and stockings for you first." And this
he said so gently and courteously, that Damaris' lips began to quiver,
very feminine and youthful shame at the indignity of her present plight
laying hold on her.
"I can't find them," she pitifully declared. "I have looked and looked,
but I can't find them anywhere. I left my things just here. Can anyone
have stolen them while I was out at the end of the Bar? It is so
mysterious and so dreadfully tiresome. I should have gone home long ago,
before the rain began, if I could have found them."
And with that, the whole little story--childish or idyllic as you
please--of sunshine and colour, of beguiling birds beguiling sea, of
sleep, and uneasy awakening when the cloud-bank rising westward devoured
the fair face of heaven, of mist and fruitless seeking, even some word of
the fear which forever sits behind and peeps over the shoulder of all
wonder and all beauty, got itself--not without eloquent passages--quickly
yet gravely told.
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