The Indian summer still continued, and a few mornings after the little journey, Edith was induced, by the soft beauty of the weather, to visit the cove. It was a walk of two miles, but the inhabitants of the cottage were among the poor of her father's parish, and she was never a stranger in their cottages. The brilliant sun gave to the ever-changing ocean the tints of emerald green, royal purple, crimson, and sapphire, and made a path of light, fit for angels' footsteps. The tide was out, and the smooth beach glittered in the morning sun. The ocean, as far as the eye could reach, was smooth as glass. It was not then, as now, white with the frequent sail: a solitary vessel was then a rare occurrence, and hailed with rapture, as bringing news from _home_. The white-winged curlew was wheeling around in perfect security, and the little bay was dotted, in a few spots, with fishermen's boats. The absence of the old boat from the beach showed that the owner of the cottage was among them. Edith was sorry her friend the fisherman was absent, for the old woman who kept his house was a virago; and, indeed, was sometimes thought insane. Although Edith's moral courage was great, she possessed that physical timidity and sensitiveness to outward impressions that belongs to the poetic temperament. She lingered in her walk, watching the curlews, and listening to the measured booming of the waves as they touched the shore and then receded. The obvious reflection that comes to every mind perhaps came to hers, that thus succeed and are scattered the successive generations of men. No; she was thinking that thus arrive and depart the days of her solitary existence; thus uniformly, and thus leaving no trace behind. Will it be always thus? she sighed; and her eyes filled with tears. Her revery was interrupted by a rough voice behind her. "What have you done, that God should grant you the happiness to weep?" said the old woman, who now stood at her side. Edith was startled, for the woman's expression was very wild, but she answered mildly, "Is that so great a boon, mother, that I should deserve to lose it?" "Ask her," she said, "whose brain is burning, and whose heart is like lead, what she would give for one moist tear. O God! I cannot weep." Whatever timidity Edith felt when she first saw the malignant expression of the old woman's countenance, was now lost in pity. She knew that the poor creature's reason was impaired, and she thought this might be one of her wild moments. She laid her hand gently on her arm, and said, with a smile, "Nanny, I have come on purpose to visit you. Let us go into the house, and you shall tell me what you think, and all you want to make you comfortable for the winter."