s, and a feminine voice raised in shrill
invective; but no one was in sight, and the conspirators emerged unseen
from the door of the inn, and turned to the left, endeavouring somewhat
unsuccessfully to appear unconscious of the approaching figure.

"Good afternoon! Good afternoon!" cried the stranger, in a full genial
voice.

"Good afternoon!" cried the confederates, in eager response; then they
passed by, and were conscious, by the cessation of the crunching
footsteps, that the "Brither" had halted to look after them as they
went.

"He likes our looks! He is going to be friendly... I don't wonder!"
soliloquised Margot, looking with fond eyes at the tall figure of the
youth by her side; at the clean-cut, sensitive face beneath the
deerstalker cap.

"He was pleased to see us. All men admire Margot," said Ron to himself,
noting with an artist's appreciation the picture made by the graceful
figure of the girl, with her vivid, healthful colouring, the little cap
set jauntily on her chestnut locks, the breeze showing glimpses of the
bright tartan lining of her cloak.

Starting under such promising auspices, brother and sister merrily
continued their way along the winding road which skirted the border of
the tarn. Fresh from London smoke and grime, the clear mountain air
tasted almost incredibly pure and fresh. One wanted to open the mouth
wide and drink it in in deep gulps; to send it down to the poor clogged
lungs,--most marvellous and reviving of tonics!

"It makes me feel--_clean_!" gasped Margot, at the end of a deep
respiration, and Ron's eyes lighted with the inward glow which showed
that imagination was perfecting the idea.

Margot loved to watch the lad at moments like these, when he strode
along, forgetful of her presence, oblivious of everything but his own
thoughts; his face set, save for those glowing eyes, and now and then an
involuntary twitch of the lips. In her own poor way she could grasp the
trend of his mind, could toil after him as he flew.

That word "clean" had suggested wonderful thoughts. God's wind, blowing
fresh over the ageless hills, untainted by the soil of the city; the
wind of the moorland and the heights! Must not a man's soul perforce be
clean who lived alone in the solitude with God? Dare he remain alone in
that awful companionship with a taint upon his life?...

Ronald dreamt, and Margot pondered, making no excuses for the silence
which is a sign of truest understandin