She crossed the strap of the bag on her mistress's bosom, and was
embraced by Carinthia and Chillon in turns, Carinthia telling her to dry
her eyes, for that she would certainly come back and perhaps occupy the
house one day or other. The old soul moaned of eyes that would not be
awake to behold her; she begged a visit at her grave, though it was to
be in a Catholic burial-place and the priests had used her dear master
and mistress ill, not allowing them to lie in consecrated ground;
affection made her a champion of religious tolerance and a little afraid
of retribution. Carinthia soothed her, kissed her, gave the promise, and
the parting was over.

She and Chillon had on the previous day accomplished a pilgrimage to
the resting-place of their father and mother among humble Protestants,
iron-smelters, in a valley out of the way of their present line of march
to the glacier of the great snow-mountain marking the junction of three
Alpine provinces of Austria. Josef, the cart-driver with the boxes, who
was to pass the valley, vowed of his own accord to hang a fresh day's
wreath on the rails. He would not hear of money for the purchase, and
they humoured him. The family had been beloved. There was an offer of
a home for Carinthia in the castle of Count Lebern, a friend of her
parents, much taken with her, and she would have accepted it had not
Chillon overruled her choice, determined that, as she was English, she
must come to England and live under the guardianship of her uncle, Lord
Levellier, of whose character he did not speak.

The girl's cheeks were drawn thin and her lips shut as they departed;
she was tearless. A phantom ring of mist accompanied her from her
first footing outside the house. She did not look back. The house came
swimming and plunging after her, like a spectral ship on big seas, and
her father and mother lived and died in her breast; and now they were
strong, consulting, chatting, laughing, caressing; now still and white,
caught by a vapour that dived away with them either to right or left,
but always with the same suddenness, leaving her to question herself
whether she existed, for more of life seemed to be with their mystery
than with her speculations. The phantom ring of mist enclosing for miles
the invariable low-sweeping dark spruce-fir kept her thoughts on them
as close as the shroud. She walked fast, but scarcely felt that she
was moving. Near midday the haunted circle widened; rocks were loosel