Wood. White. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly. She tucked the mission Bible under her arm, and crooking a finger at Rollo, went forth to the west beach where the sou'-west surge piled up muddily, burdened with broken spars, crates, boxes, and weeds. Spurling and Marvel rose too. They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. Some had the dignity and the aloofness of a rock in the sea; and others were as the polished pebbles on the sands—one saw the difference of pebble from pebble only by close scrutiny.
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