Adam Johnstone's Son. F. Marion Crawford

overspread her naturally gentle face. But the thought was evidently still present in her mind, for her attention did not fix itself upon her book, and presently she looked at her daughter, as the latter bent her head over the little bag she was making.

      The young girl felt her mother’s eyes upon her, looked up herself, and smiled faintly, almost mechanically, as before. It was a sort of habit they both had—a way of acknowledging one another’s presence in the world. But this time it seemed to Clare that there was a question in the look, and after she had smiled she spoke.

      “No,” she said, “I don’t understand how anybody can forget the past. It seems to me that I shall always remember why I did things, said things, and thought things. I should, if I lived a hundred years, I’m quite sure. ”

      “Perhaps you have a better memory than I,” answered Mrs. Bowring. “But I don’t think it is exactly a question of memory either. I can remember what I said, and did, and thought, well—twenty years ago. But it seems to me very strange that I should have thought, and spoken, and acted, just as I did. After all isn’t it natural? They tell us that our bodies are quite changed in less time than that.”

      “Yes—but the soul does not change,” said Clare with conviction.

      “The soul—”

      Mrs. Bowring repeated the word, but said nothing more, and her still, blue eyes wandered from her daughter’s face and again fixed themselves on an imaginary point of the far southern distance.

      “At least,” said Clare, “I was always taught so.”

      She smiled again, rather coldly, as though admitting that such teaching might not be infallible after all.

      “It is best to believe it,” said her mother quietly, but in a colourless voice. “Besides,” she added, with a change of tone, “I do believe it, you know. One is always the same, in the main things. It is the point of view that changes. The best picture in the world does not look the same in every light, does it? ”

      “No, I suppose not. You may like it in one light and not in another, and in one place and not in another.”

      “Or at one time of life, and not at another,” added Mrs. Bowring, thoughtfully.

      “I can’t imagine that.” Clare paused a moment. “Of course you are thinking of people,” she continued presently, with a little more animation. “One always means people, when one talks in that way. And that is what I cannot quite understand. It seems to me that if I liked people once I should always like them.”

      Her mother looked at her.

      “Yes—perhaps you would,” she said, and she relapsed into silence.

      Clare’s colour did not change. No particular person was in her thoughts, and she had, as it were, given her own general and inexperienced opinion of her own character, quite honestly and without affectation.

      “I don’t know which are the happier,” said Mrs. Bowring at last, “the people who change, or the people who can’t.”

      “You mean faithful or unfaithful people, I suppose,” observed the young girl with grave innocence.

      A very slight flush rose in Mrs. Bowring’s thin cheeks, and the quiet eyes grew suddenly hard, but Clare was busy with her work again and did not see.

      “Those are big words,” said the older woman in a low voice.

      “Well—yes—of course!” answered Clare. “So they ought to be! It is always the main question, isn’t it? Whether you can trust a person or not, I mean.”

      “That is one question. The other is, whether the person deserves to be trusted.”

      “Oh—it’s the same thing!”

      “Not exactly.”

      “You know what I mean, mother. Besides, I don’t believe that any one who can’t trust is really to be trusted. Do you?”

      “My dear Clare!” exclaimed Mrs. Bowring. “You can’t put life into a nutshell, like that!”

      “No. I suppose not, though if a thing is true at all it must be always true.”

      “Saving exceptions.”

      “Are there any exceptions to truth?” asked Clare incredulously. “Truth isn’t grammar—nor the British Constitution.”

      “No. But then, we don’t know everything. What we call truth is what we know. It is only what we know. All that we don’t know, but which is, is true, too—especially, all that we don’t know about people with whom we have to live. ”

      “Oh—if people have secrets!” The young girl laughed idly. “But you and I, for instance, mother—we have no secrets from each other, have we? Well? Why should any two people who love each other have secrets? And if they have none, why, then, they know all that there is to be known about one another, and each trusts the other, and has a right to be trusted, because everything is known—and everything is the whole truth. It seems to me that is simple enough, isn’t it?”

      Mrs. Bowring laughed in her turn. It was rather a hard little laugh, but Clare was used to the sound of it, and joined in it, feeling that she had vanquished her mother in argument, and settled one of the most important questions of life for ever.

      “What a pretty steamer!” exclaimed Mrs. Bowring suddenly.

      “It’s a yacht,” said Clare after a moment. “The flag is English, too. I can see it distinctly.”

      She laid down her work, and her mother closed her book upon her forefinger again, and they watched the graceful white vessel as she glided slowly in from the Conca, which she had rounded while they had been talking.

      “It’s very big, for a yacht,” observed Mrs. Bowring. “They are coming here. ”

      “They have probably come round from Naples to spend a day,” said Clare. “We are sure to have them up here. What a nuisance!”

      “Yes. Everybody comes up here who comes to Amalfi at all. I hope they won’t stay long.”

      “There is no fear of that,” answered Clare. “I heard those people saying the other day that this is not a place where a vessel can lie any length of time. You know how the sea sometimes breaks on the beach.”

      Mrs. Bowring and her daughter desired of all things to be quiet. The visitors who came, stayed a few days at the hotel, and went away again, were as a rule tourists or semi-invalids in search of a climate, and anything but noisy. But people coming in a smart English yacht would probably be society people, and as such Mrs. Bowring wished that they would keep away. They would behave as though the place belonged to them, so long as they remained; they would get all the attention of the proprietor and of the servants for the time being; and they would make everybody feel shabby and poor.

      The Bowrings were poor, indeed, but they were not shabby. It was perhaps because they were well aware that nobody could mistake them for average tourists that they resented the coming of a party which belonged to what is called society. Mrs. Bowring had a strong aversion to making new acquaintances, and even disliked being thrown into the proximity of people who might know friends of hers, who might have heard of her, and who might talk about her and her daughter. Clare said that her mother’s shyness in this respect was almost morbid; but she had unconsciously caught a little of it herself, and, like her mother, she was often quite uselessly on her guard against strangers, of the kind whom she might possibly be called upon to know, though she was perfectly affable and at her ease with those whom she looked upon as undoubtedly her social inferiors.

      They were not mistaken in their prediction that the party from the yacht would come up to the Cappuccini. Half an hour after the yacht had dropped anchor the terrace was invaded. They came up in twos and threes, nearly a dozen of them, men and women, smart-looking people with healthy, sun-burnt faces, voices loud from the sea