"Perhaps I do," returned Nan, simply; and then she added, with quaintness that was pathetic, "You see, we are so unused to the feeling, and it is over-hard at first: by and by we shall be more used to not having our own way in things." "I think I could give up that readily, if I could be sure you and Dulce were not miserable," sighed Phillis. "That is what I say," returned Nan. "Don't you see how simple and beautiful that is? Thinking of each other gives us strength to go through with it all. This evening trying to cheer you up has done me good. I do not feel the least afraid of people to-night. Looking at that sea and sky makes one feel the littleness and unreality of all these worries. What does it matter--what does anything matter--if we only do our duty and love each other, and submit to the Divine will?" finished Nan, reverently, who seldom spoke of her deeper feelings, even to Phillis. "Nan, you are a saint," returned Phillis, enthusiastically. The worried look had left her eyes; they looked clear and bright as usual. "Oh, what a heathen I have been to-day! but, as Dulce is so fond of saying, 'I am going to be good. I will read the evening Psalms to you, in token of my resolution, if you like. But wait: is there not some one coming across the sand! How eerie it looks, such a tall black figure standing between the earth and sky!" Phillis had good sight, or she would hardly have distinguished the figure, which was now motionless, at such a distance. In another moment she even announced that its draperies showed it to be a woman, before she opened her book and commenced reading. There is something very striking in a lonely central figure in a scene, the outline cuts so sharply against the horizon. Nan's eyes seemed riveted on it as she listened to Phillis's voice; it seemed to her as immovable as a Sphinx, its rigidity lending a sort of barrenness and forlornness to the landscape, a black edition of human nature set under a violet and opal sky. She almost started when it moved, at last, with a steady bearing, as it seemed, towards them; then curiosity quickened into interest, and she touched Phillis's arm, whispering breathlessly,-- "The Sphinx moves! Look--is not that Mrs. Cheyne, the lady who lives at the White House near us, who always looks so lonely and unhappy?" "Hush!" returned Phillis, "she will hear you;" and then Mrs. Cheyne approached with the same swift even walk. She looked at them for a moment, as she passed, with a sort of well-bred surprise in her air, as though she marvelled to see them there; her black dress touched Laddie, and he caught at it with an impotent bark.