In the Roar of the Sea

Sitting in the parsonage garden, in a white frock, with a pale green sash about her waist, leaning back against the red-brick wall, her glowing copper hair lit by the evening sun, was Judith Trevisa. She was tossing guelder-roses into the air; some dozens were strewn about her feet on the gravel, but one remained of the many she had plucked and thrown and caught, and thrown and caught again for a sunny afternoon hour. As each greenish-white ball of flowers went up into the air it diffused a faint but pleasant fragrance. “When I have done with you, my beauty, I have done altogether,” said Judith. “With what?” Her father spoke. He had come up unperceived by the girl, burdened with a shovel in one hand and a bucket in the other, looking pale, weary, and worn. “Papa, you nearly spoiled my game. Let me finish, and I will speak.” “Is it a very serious matter, Judith, and engrossing?” “Engrossing, but not serious, Je m’amuse.”