Her hat was off, for the sun had lost its burning force, and the hand that held it hung idly by her, while her eyes were fixed on the horizon flaming with all the varied glories of an African sunset.

He gazed at her sweet face and lissom form, and some lines that he had read years before floated into his mind-- The little curls about her head Were all her crown of gold, Her delicate arms drooped downwards In slender mould, As white-veined leaves of lilies Curve and fold.
She moved to measures of music, As a swan sails the stream-- He had got thus far when she turned and saw him, and he abandoned poetry in the presence of one who might well have inspired it.
"What are you looking at ?" she said with a smile; "the sunset ?" "No; I was looking at you." "Then you might have been better employed with the sky," she answered, turning her head quickly.

"Look at it! Did you ever see such a sunset?
We sometimes get them like that at this time of year when the thunderstorms are about." She was right; it was glorious.

The heavy clouds which a couple of hours before had been rolling like celestial hearses across the azure deeps were now aflame with glory.

Some of them glowed like huge castles wrapped in fire, others with the dull red heat of burning coal.