"
"My dear Beatrice, think of what you are saying," said Lillian.
"I am tired of thinking," said Beatrice; "for the last ten years
I have been told to 'think' and 'reflect.' I have thought all I
can; I want a fresh subject."
"Think how beautiful those far-off white sails look," said
Lillian--"how they gleam in the sunshine. See, that one looks
like a mysterious hand raised to beckon us away."
"Such ideas are very well for you, Lillian," retorted Beatrice.
"I see nothing in them. Look at the stories we read; how
different those girls are from us! They have fathers, brothers,
and friends; they have jewels and dresses; they have handsome
admirers, who pay them homage; they dance, ride, and enjoy
themselves. Now look at us, shut up here with old and serious
people."
"Hush, Beatrice," said Lillian; "mamma is not old."
"Not in years, perhaps," replied Beatrice; "but she seems to me
old in sorrow. She is never gay nor light-hearted. Mrs. Vyvian
is very kind, but she never laughs. Is every one sad and
unhappy, I wonder? Oh, Lillian, I long to see the world--the
bright, gay world--over the sea there.
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