As
she sat there gazing in the pool, her hand gradually warming between
my two hands, I felt that never when sane, never in her most
bewitching moments, had she been so lovable as she was now. This new
kind of spell she exercised over me it would be impossible to
describe. But it sprang from the expression on her face of that
absolute freedom from all self-consciousness which is the great charm
in children, combined with the grace and beauty of her own matchless
girlhood. A desire to embrace her, to crush her to my breast, seized
me like a frenzy.
'Winifred,' I said, 'you are very cold.'
But she was now insensible to sound. I knew from experience now that
I must shake her to bring her back to consciousness, for evidently,
in her fits of reverie, the sounds falling upon her ear were not
conveyed to the brain at all.
I shook her gently, and said, 'The Prince of the Mist.'
She started back to life. My idea had been a happy one. My words had
at once sent her thoughts into the right direction for me.
'Pardon me, Prince,' said she, smiling; 'I had forgotten that you
were here.
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