VI.
Four weeks after Strand's departure, as the
summer had already assumed that tinge of sadness
which impresses one as a foreboding of
coming death, Augusta was walking along the
beach, watching the flight of the sea-birds. Her
latest "aberration," as Arnfinn called it, was an
extraordinary interest in the habits of the eider-
ducks, auks, and sea-gulls, the noisy monotony
of whose existence had, but a few months ago,
appeared to her the symbol of all that was vulgar
and coarse in human and animal life. Now
she had even provided herself with a note-book,
and (to use once more the language of her
unbelieving cousin) affected a half-scientific interest
in their clamorous pursuits. She had made
many vain attempts to imitate their voices and
to beguile them into closer intimacy, and had
found it hard at times to suppress her indignation
when they persisted in viewing her in the
light of an intruder, and in returning her amiable
approaches with shy suspicion, as if they
doubted the sincerity of her intentions.
She was a little paler now, perhaps, than before,
but her eyes had still the same lustrous
depth, and the same sweet serenity was still
diffused over her features, and softened, like a
pervading tinge of warm color, the grand
simplicity of her presence. She sat down on a
large rock, picked up a curiously twisted shell,
and seeing a plover wading in the surf, gave a
soft, low whistle, which made the bird turn
round and gaze at her with startled distrust.
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