They lay almost motionless in the
lapping water: the light breeze scarcely stirred the loose canvas.
From time to time they could hear a sound of calling or laughing from
the distant fishing-boats; and that only seemed to increase the
silence around them.
It was an evening that invited to repose and reverie: there were not
even the usual fiery colors of the sunset to arouse and fix attention
by their rapidly-changing and glowing hues. The town itself, lying
darkly all around the sweep of the bay, was dusky and distant:
elsewhere all the world seemed to be flooded with the silver light
coming over from behind the western hills. The sky was of the palest
blue; the long mackerel clouds that stretched across were of the
faintest yellow and lightest gray; and into that shining gray rose the
black stems of the trees that were just over the outline of these low
heights. St. Michael's-Mount had its summit touched by the pale glow:
the rest of the giant rock and the far stretches of sea around it were
gray with mist. But close by the boat there was a sharper light on the
lapping waves and on the tall spars, while it was warm enough to
heighten the color on Wenna's face as she sat and looked silently at
the great and open world around her.
They were drifting in more ways than one. Wenna almost forgot what had
occurred in the morning.
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