of whitish softness the whole length of the range. On the lonely, fawn-coloured water, one sail was blowing.
“It is like Europe—like the Tyrol to-day,” said Kate wistfully.
“Do you love Europe very much?” asked Teresa.
“Yes, I think I love it.”
“And must you go back to it?”
“I think so. Soon! To my mother and my children.”
“Do they want you very much?”
“Yes!” said Kate, rather hesitant. Then she added: “Not very much, really. But I want them.”
“What for?—I mean,” Teresa added, “do you long for them?”
“Sometimes,” said Kate, the tears coming to her eyes.
The boat rowed on in silence.
“And Cipriano?” Teresa asked timidly.
“Ah!” said Kate shortly. “He is such a stranger to me.”
Teresa was silent for some moments.
“I think a man is always a stranger to a woman,” said Teresa. “Why should it