And then," she added with a flash of
anger--"then I would not build."
"Well," said I, "when it is nearly finished, and the water washes up,
and up, and washes it away, here is a flower that came from
Fairyland. And that, dear heart, is none so far away."
She took the purple flower I had plucked in Ennui's garden in her
slim, cold hand.
"It's amaranth," she said; and I have never seen so old a little look
in a child's eyes.
"And all the flowers' names too?" I said.
She frowned again. "It's amaranth," she said, and ran off lightly and
so deftly among the rocks and in the shadow that was advancing now
even upon the foam of the sea, that she had vanished before I had time
to deter, or to pursue her. I sought her awhile, until the dark rack
of sunset obscured the light, and the sea's voice changed; then I
desisted.
It was useless to remain longer beneath the looming caves, among the
stones of so inhospitable a shore. I was a stranger to the tides. And
it was clear high-water would submerge the narrow sands whereon I
stood.
Yet I cannot describe how loth I was to leave to night's desolation
the shapeless house of a child.
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