a tiny thread of water.  In search of a seat the two strollers made their way across this rivulet over the broken rocks, passed over the summit of the giant mass, and established themselves in a cavernous place close to the sea.  Here was a natural seat, and the bulk of the seamed and colored ledge, rising above their heads and curving around them, shut them out of sight of the land, and left them alone with the dashing sea, and the gulls that circled and dipped their silver wings in their eager pursuit of prey.  For a time neither spoke.  Irene was looking seaward, and Mr. King, who had a lower seat, attentively watched the waves lapping the rocks at their feet, and the fine profile and trim figure of the girl against the sky.  He thought he had never seen her looking more lovely, and yet he had a sense that she never was so remote from him.  Here was an opportunity, to be sure, if he had anything to say, but some fine feeling of propriety restrained him from taking advantage of it.  It might not be quite fair, in a place so secluded and remote, and with such sentimental influences, shut in as they were to the sea and the sky.

“It seems like a world by itself,” she began, as in continuation of her thought.  “They say you can see Gay Head Light from here.”

“Yes.  And Newport to the left there, with its towers and trees rising out of the sea.  It is quite like the Venice Lagoon in this light.”

“I think I like Newport better at this distance.  It is very poetical.  I don’t think I like what is called the world much, when I am close to it.”

The remark seemed to ask for sympathy, and Mr. King ventured:  “Are you willing to tell me, Miss Benson, why you have not seemed as happy at Newport as elsewhere?  Pardon me; it is not an idle question.”  Irene, who seemed to be looking away beyond Gay Head, did not reply.  “I should like to know if I have been in any way the cause of it.  We agreed to be friends, and I think I have a friend’s right to know.”  Still no response.  “You must see—­you must know,” he went on, hurriedly, “that it cannot be a matter of indifference to me.”

“It had better be,” she said, as if speaking deliberately to herself, and still looking away.  But suddenly she turned towards him, and the tears sprang to her eyes, and the words rushed out fiercely, “I wish I had never left Cyrusville.  I wish I had never been abroad.  I wish I had never been educated.  It is all a wretched mistake.”

King was unprepared for such a passionate outburst.  It was like a rift in a cloud, through which he had a glimpse of her real life.  Words of eager protest sprang to his lips, but, before they could be uttered, either her mood had changed or pride had come to the rescue, for she said:  “How silly I am!  Everybody has discontented days.  Mr. King, please don’t ask me such questions.  If you want to be a friend, you will let me be unhappy now and then, and not say anything about it.”