longed for, she grew sick at heart.  The folly, the dreadfulness of what she had done, swept over her like a flood, and with it came dreadful fear.  She was helpless,—­an outcast.  Pride would never let her go home.  She could go nowhere else.  They had her money, and here she must live and die.  She sat down in a sort of stupor, and paid no heed to the squabbling children who pulled at her gown, or the dogs who sniffed snappingly at the stranger.

Lisetta, busy with greetings and chattings, quite forgot her for a time, and was dismayed when she saw her sitting disconsolately by.  “Come, Signorina,” she cried, “go down to the bay.  Here is Talila; she will guide you.”

Mae looked up quickly at that.  Talila, was she here?  A few feet from her she saw an uncouth woman, with that falling of the jaw most imbeciles possess, and a vacancy in her eyes.  She had her hand raised and was swearing at one of the children.  “Talila,” repeated Mae, rubbing her eyes, and shivering, “but I thought Talila would be different.  You said she loved children, but this woman swears at them.”

“O, dear, we all swear at them, but we love them; you shall see how they follow her.  Talila, off with you and your babies.”  And the next moment there was a general scamper of brown children headed by this tall, vacant-looking woman.  “Take the lady to the sea,” continued Lisetta.  And Mae arose, as if in a dream, and followed them.

The half-clad children of the sun ran before her as she had dreamed they would; flowers sprang up along the way, but she did not stop to pluck a single bud or turn to look at anything.  She wandered on in an awful sort of fright and came at length to the water’s edge.  Here there were row-boats lying at anchor, into which the children clambered.  Mae stepped into one of them and sat down in the stern, and looked about.  All was as she had planned.  Her day of heaven was here.  She tried to be brave.  O, she tried very hard.  She wanted to love and enjoy the sea, and think beautiful thoughts.  She roused a little and stretched herself out to catch the sunbeams in her eyes, as she had said she would.  How warm they were.  An umbrella would be a luxury—­and a book!  But these belonged to the world she had left so far behind her.  The dirty children babbled a strange tongue; the water around the boat, by the shore, was covered with a scum, and alas! alas! the land of her desire was farther off than ever.  Then she remembered that Norman Mann had once said:  “If you ever do disappear I shall know where to look for you.”  Would he think of it now?  Would he come for her?  If he had only come last night, and would drive by now to Sorrento.  He would be here soon if he had.  Would she call him loudly or shrink down in the boat and hide her face in her hands till she knew he was a long way past?  The rest of them would not know where to look for her.  They did not know anything about Lisetta, and she had promised not to tell even the padrona. (Faithless Lisetta!) But of course Norman wouldn’t come for her, after what he had said at the Capitol.  That was what finally drove her away.  How unlike him it did seem to speak of her in that way to Eric.  She thought over his words, and as she did so she seemed to see her mistake, and grasp his meaning.