If they might be said to be shipmates sailing the same waters, they yet
differed in the direction of their gaze. The harbor master fixed his
eyes upon the harbor; but little Day turned hers oftenest upon the blue
sea itself, whose mysterious inquietude he had turned from in dismay.
True, the harbor was not without its fascination for her. Leaning over
the side of his dory, the sea girl would shiver with delight to descry
those dismal forests over which they sailed, dark and dizzying masses
full of wavering black holes, through which sometimes a blunt-nosed
bronze fish sank like a bolt, and again where sting ray darted, and
jellyfish palpitated with that wavering of fringe which produced the
faintest of turmoil at the surface of the water.
This would be at the twilight hour when warm airs alternated with cold,
like hopes with despairs. Sparbuoys of silver gray were duplicated in
the water, wrinkled like a snout at the least ripple from the oars.
Boats at anchor seemed twice their real size by reason of their dark
shadows made one with them. One by one the yellow riding lights were
hung, far in. They shone like new-minted coins; the harbor was itself a
purse of black velvet, to which the harbor master held the strings. The
quiet--the immortal quiet--operated to restore his soul.
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