"They stick to the bottom of a ship," she said, "and grow heavier and heavier till at last the ship can make no more way, and comes to a standstill in a shining sea, where the water is as smooth as a mirror; you would think it was a mirror, in fact, if it did not heave gently up and down like your breast when you breathe; and every time it heaves it flushes some colour, blue, or green, or pink, or purple. And the barnacles swell and swell at the bottom of the ship, till at last they burst in two with a loud report; and then the sailors rush to the side of the ship and look over, and there they see a flock of beautiful big white geese coming up out of the water; and sometimes they shoot the geese, but if they do a great storm comes on and engulfs the ship, and they are all drowned; but sometimes they stand stockstill, amazed, and then the birds rise up out of the air on their great white wings, up, up, drifting along, together, till they look like the clouds over there. Then a gentle breeze springs up, and the ship sails away safely into port." "And where do the geese go?" Beth demanded, with breathless interest. "They make for the shore too, and in the dead of winter, on stormy nights, they fly over the land, uttering strange cries, and if you wake and hear them, it means somebody is going to die." Beth's eyes were staring far out beyond the great green Atlantic rollers that came bursting in round the sheltering headland, white-crested with foam, flying up the beach with a crash, and scattering showers of spray that sparkled in the sunshine. She could see the ships and the barnacles, and the silent sea, heaving great sighs and flushing with fine colour in the act; and the geese, and the sailors peering over the side and shooting at them and sinking immediately in a storm, but also sailing into a safe haven triumphantly, where the sun shone on white houses, although, at the same time, it was dark night, and overhead there were strange cries that made her cower--"Beth!" cried Sophia, "what's the matter with you, child?" Beth returned with a start, and stared at her--"I know who it will be," she said. "Who what'll be, Miss Beth?" Anne asked in awe. "Who'll die," said Beth. "You mustn't say, Beth; you'll bring bad luck if you do," Miss Keene interposed hastily. "I'm not going to say," Beth answered dreamily; "but I know." "You shouldn't have told the child that story, miss," Anne said. "Shure, ye know what she is--she sees." Anne nodded her head several times significantly. "I forgot," said Sophia. "She'll forget too," said Mary philosophically. "I say, Beth," she went on, raising herself on her elbow--she was lying prone on a slab of rock in the sun--"what does your mother think of us?" Beth roused herself. "I don't know," she answered earnestly; "she never says. But I know what papa thinks of you. He says Mary's a gawk, Sophia is as yellow as a duck's foot, and Lenore is only half-witted."