She sprang up in the boat. "It was the other girl--Miss Rae--he was
speaking of. Oh, oh, oh--and now it is too late. He will hate me
always."
As she stood there, a carriage rolled by. Some one looked out. "O,
mamma," said a young voice in English, "look at that pretty little
peasant," and a kid-gloved hand was stretched through the open window to
spatter a shower of base coin toward her. It was terrible! The children
sprang for it, and, fighting and laughing, ran homewards with the
dreadful Talila. The parti-colored picturesque dress had been a joy to
Mae. Now she longed to tear it off and die--die! No, she was afraid to
die. She would have to live, and she didn't know how, and she laughed a
bitter sort of laugh.
There was a sound of horses' feet again. The road lay almost close to
the shore just here. A low exclamation, a vault from his horse, which
was speedily cared for by a dozen boys near at hand, and before Mae knew
it, the officer was beside her once more.
O, how beautiful it was to see some one from the world, fresh, and
clean, and fair.
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