“You come with the stars,” said Reyburn, giving her his hand at the last step; but she merely put out her own hand with the gesture of receiving aid, and passed on, her dark gauzy drapery floating behind her, and the lace of her Spanish mantilla falling round her from her Spanish comb.  She went to her brother’s side, and sat there and talked, or rose with him and walked:  there was everything to say and hear after their two years’ separation.  As for Reyburn, perhaps her manner was courteous enough to him, but certainly she hardly seemed to see him.  Nor could he claim acquaintanceship with her:  the gaunt and big-eyed child whom he had known two years ago had a different individuality from this dark girl with the rosy stain on the oval cheek and the immense eyelashes.  He heard her gay laugh as John complimented her—­a laugh as sweet as her singing; he saw the smile that kindled all her beauty into vivid life; he saw the still face listening to what was said; but he scarcely learned anything further than was thus declared.  When at length she sang one parting strain, he wondered if the singing and the beauty were all there was:  it occurred to him to find out.  He remembered that moment of the evening before when John had betrayed distrust.  “I will mislead him,” said Reyburn, “and Lilian will understand it all.”  He stood before Helen as she rose with her father to go down.

  “Ask me no more whither doth haste
  The nightingale when May is past;
  For in your sweet dividing throat
  She winters, and keeps warm her note!”

he said, and stepped aside.

“We’ve taken a mermaid aboard, sir,” said the sailing-master.  “Nothing else, they say, sings after that fashion, and the men are on the lookout for foul weather.”

“Never mind what the men say,” said Reyburn, “while your barometer says nothing.”

When Mr. Reyburn went on deck at sunrise he found Helen standing there with Lilian—­with Lilian, who, after her day’s illness, looked strangely wan and worn, looked like the feeble shadow of the other with her rich carnations, her glowing eyes, her picturesque outlines.  Reyburn went aft and took Lilian’s hand.  “You have been so ill!” he said; and then he looked up and saw again this splendid creature, loosely clad in white, her black hair, unbraided and unbound, flowing in wave and ripple far down her back, her sleeve falling from the uplifted arm and perfect hand, that held a fan of the rose-colored spoonbill’s feathers above her head, so beautiful and brilliant that she seemed only a projection of that beautiful and brilliant hour, with all its radiant dyes, before the sun was up; and he forgot that Lilian had been ill, forgot for a moment that Lilian existed.  “I will find out what she is made of,” thought Reyburn.  “Are you made of clay?” he said boldly.

“He shall find that there is fire in my clay,” said Helen to herself as she appeared not to heed his look or his words.