nature in the more inclusive sense, never invented La
Trappe."

"It gets very complex as we go on," said Miss

M . "The fact remains that for many, for the

sensitive, and often for others than the intellectual,
the world of natural things has soothing ways and an
inexplicable comfort not elsewhere to be found."

"It may be," returned Vincent. "What are those
Unes of which St. Clair is so fond ?

"Only on Nature's lap can some men weep,
Only to her beloved gives she sleep ;
Her sympathy alone hath ever perfect touch,
Mpn gives too little or he gives too much.''

"Thank you," said Miss M . "And where is

your friend? We ought to be ashamed to use this
perfect day for a talk so grave. Let us keep the rest
of it for an east wind."

"And its consolations," laughed Vincent. "As to
that I am at one with you. Its relations to me are
despotic and disagreeable. Oh, there he is, the idle
beggar. All Lombard street to a cbina orange, lie has
been making poetry. Halloo, St. Clair ! "

Below the small lighthouse, on the rocks at the verge
of the sea, the sculptor lay with his head over the
edge, his face exposed to the full sunlight. The waves
broke far out on a reef, and as they rose again with
failing power just touched his head. He laughed with
the glee of a truant boy. As we came down the rocks
he sat up, shook the brine out of his hair as a dog
does, looked about him, and said, " Oh, the treacherous
sea ! There it is."

The little black note-book he usually carried in his



CHAEACTEBI8TICS. Ill

pocket, having been laid on a rock, had been drifted
off by a wave.
