Narrow leaves of olive formed her chaplet. The
darker wine-colours of the sea changed in her eyes. There was no sense
of gloom or sorrowfulness in her company. I began to see how the same
still breast might bear celestial children so diverse as these, whose
names, she told me presently, were Sleep and Death.
I looked at the two children at play, "Ah! now," I said, almost
involuntarily "the golden boy who has caught my horse's bridle in his
hand, is not he Sleep? and he who considers his brother's
boldness--that one is Death?"
She smiled with lovely vanity, and told me how strange of heart young
children are. How they will alter and vary, never the same for long
together, but led by indiscoverable caprices and obedient to some
further will. She smiled and said how that sometimes, when the birds
hush suddenly from song, Sleep would creep tenderly and sadly to her
knees, and Death clasp her roguishly, as if in some secret with the
beams of morning. So would they change, one to the likeness of the
other. But Sleep was, perhaps, of the gentler disposition; a little
obstinate and headstrong; at times, indeed, beyond all cajolery; yet
very sweet of impulse and ardent to make amends.
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