A day for all
sorts of things; good for exertion, and equally inviting one
to be still and think.

'How happens it you have let Jeannie stand still so long?'
Rollo asked presently.

'I have not wanted to ride her,--that is all.'

'Would you like her better if she were your own?' he said
quite gently, though with a keen eye directed at Wych Hazel's
face.

'No. Not now.' The 'now' slipped out by mistake, and might
mean either of two things. Rollo did not feel sure what it
meant.

'Did you ever notice,' he said after a few minutes again, 'how
different the clouds of this season are from those of other
times of the year? Look at those high bands of vapour lying
along towards the south; they seem absolutely poised and
still. Clouds in spring and summer are drifting, or flying, or
dispersing, or gathering: earnest and purposeful; with work to
do, and hurrying to do it. Look at those yonder; they are at
rest, as if all the work of the year were done up. I think
they say it is.'

The fair grave face was lifted, shewing uncertainty through
the light veil; and she looked up intently at the sky, almost
wondering to herself if there _had_ been clouds in the spring
and early summer. She hardly seemed to remember them.

'Is that what they say to you?' she said dreamily. 'They look
to me as if they were just waiting,--waiting to see where the
wind will rise.'

'But the wind does not rise in October. They will lie there,
on the blessed blue, half the day. It looks to me like the
rest after work.'

She glanced at him.

'I do not know much about work,' she said. 'What I suppose you
would call work. It has not come into my hands.'

'It has not come into mine,' said Rollo. 'But can there be
rest without work going before it?'

'Such stillness?' she said, looking up at the white flecks
again. 'But according to that, we do not either of us know
rest.'

'Well,' said he smiling, 'I do not. Do you?'

'I used to think I did. What do you mean by rest, Mr. Rollo?'

'Look at those lines of cloud. They tell. The repose of
satisfied exertion; the happy looking back upon work done,
after the call for work is over.'

She looked up, and kept looking up; but she did not speak.
Somehow the new combinations of these last weeks had made her
sober; she did not get used to them. The little wayward scraps
of song had been silent, and the quick speeches did not come.

'But then,' Rollo went on again presently, 'then comes up
another