Sarah's hat--a broad-brimmed "flat" of brown straw--had fallen back upon her shoulders, and the sea breeze played in her hair, raising the short and loose strands and giving to the whole a rough, "frowzy" look. Her plain linen collar and undersleeves showed her complexion and hands to the worst possible advantage. Upon her cheeks, this same unfriendly wind had bestowed a coat of tan and a few freckles, that were all the more conspicuous from her pallor, while her fingers were as brown as a gypsy's. Her gray poplin dress had lost most of its original gloss, and being one of Mrs. Hunt's bargains--"a cheap thing, but plenty good for that outlandish Shrewsbury"--already betrayed its cotton warp by creases that would not be smoothed, and an aspect of general limpness--a prophecy of speedy, irremediable shabbiness. Cast loosely about her shoulders was a light shawl, green, with black sprigs--another bargain; and beyond the skirt of her robe appeared the toe and instep of a thick-soled gaiter, very suitable for a tramp through damp sand, yet anything but becoming to the foot it protected. With an impatient shake of the head, involuntary and positive, Philip closed his final observation. And cutting off a large splinter from the weather-beaten timber against which he leaned, set about trimming it, wearing a serious, settled face, that said his mind was fully made up. What had Sarah seen all this while? Heavens, over which the films of the forenoon had thickened into dun cloud-curtains, stretching above and enwrapping the world; a wild, dreary expanse of troubled waters, whose horizon line was lost in the misty blending of sea and sky, ever hurrying and heaving to moan out their unrest upon the barren beach. In the distance was a solitary sail; nearer to the land, a large sea-bird flew heavily against the wind. In such mateless, weary night must her life be passed; that lone, frail craft was not so hopelessly forlorn upon a gloomy sea, beneath a sky that gloomed yet more darkly--as was her heart, torn suddenly from its moorings--anchor and rudder and compass gone. Yet who could syllable the mighty sorrow of the complaining sea? And were there words in human language that could tell the anguish of the swelling flood beating within her breast?