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Isla Heron
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“Isla!” cried the preacher. “Isla, come back! come back to us!”
The girl turned, with a cry, a wild gesture; whether of greeting or defiance, they could not tell. Then – a slip, was it, or a spring? Who shall say? A foam crest tossed high in air, then fell, and swept out through the pale beryl-green, out to the blue beyond. Borne with the great wave, tossing, drifting, – is it a tress of weed torn from the rock? Or has the sea taken his child to himself?
THE END
The girl turned, with a cry, a wild gesture; whether of greeting or defiance, they could not tell. Then – a slip, was it, or a spring? Who shall say? A foam crest tossed high in air, then fell, and swept out through the pale beryl-green, out to the blue beyond. Borne with the great wave, tossing, drifting, – is it a tress of weed torn from the rock? Or has the sea taken his child to himself?
THE END
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