by Olive Schreiner (Author)

All day the soft wind played with her hair, and the young, young face looked out across the water. She was waiting-she was waiting; but she could not tell for what. All day the waves ran up and up on the sand, and ran back again, and the pink shells rolled. Life sat waiting; all day, with the sunlight in her eyes, she sat there, till, grown weary, she laid her head upon her knee and fell asleep, waiting still.