She turned away with that slight
sense of intoxication that comes from gazing too long upon the
inexpressible beauty of a world that is dimmed only by the complaints
and forebodings of querulous humanity. In the cool dimness of the
pretty many-windowed room she stood a moment irresolutely, and then
went in search of inspiration to a row of well-used books, over which
she ran a pink reflective finger-tip. But nothing there responded to
her need. It is a rare book that is worthy to hold the attention of
maidenhood on a June morning.
So, as further slumber was impossible, she presently slipped down
stairs, and stepped out upon the broad veranda. Afterwards came the
younger children, Herbert and Eva, whose usually bright faces were
shadowed now with the consciousness that it was Sunday, a fact that
was aggravated rather than palliated by the radiant perfection of the
weather. The Commodore, who was the most sympathetic soul alive,
would, if he could have followed his own unperverted instincts, have
had his children as happy on Sunday as on any other day, but it was
necessary to make concessions to the Puritan spirit of the time, which
ruled that a certain degree of discomfort and restraint should mark
the first day of the week.
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