ndford where
they had been, nor what they had seen, nor how they had missed us; and
Dermot invented for the nonce a legend about a fairy in the hill, who
made people gyrate round it in utter oblivion of all things; thus
successfully diverting the attention of Miss Sandford, who took it all
seriously. Yes, she certainly was a stupid girl.

Every moment that lengthened the veritable enchantment of that autumn
afternoon was precious beyond what we knew, and we kept Miss Sandford
prowling about the garden on all sorts of pretexts, till the poor girl
was tired out, as well she might be, for we had kept her on her feet
for three hours and a half, and she made her escape at last to join
Viola.

I always think of Harold and Viola, as I saw them at that moment, on
the top of the western slope of the lawn, so that there was a great
ruddy gold sky behind them, against which their silhouettes stood out
in a sort of rich dark purple shade.

"Oh, they are looking at such a sunset!" cried Miss Sandford, climbing
up the hill.

"Query!" murmured Dermot, for the faces were in profile, not turning
towards the sun in the sky, but to the sunbeams in one another's
eyes--sunbeams that were still there when we joined them, and, in my
recollection, seem to blend with the glorious haze of light that was
pouring down in a flood over the purple moorland horizon, and the wood,
field, and lake below. I was forced to say something about going home,
and Viola took me up to her room, where we had one of those embraces
that can never be forgotten. The chief thing that the dear girl said
to me was, "Oh, Lucy. How he has suffered! How shall I ever make it
up to him?"

Poor dear Viola, little did she think that she was to cause the very
sharpest of his sufferings.

Nay, as little did he, when we rode home together with the still
brilliant sky before us. I never see a lane ending in golden light,
melting into blue, and dark pine trees framing as it were the
brightness, with every little branch defined against it, without
thinking of that silence of intense, almost awe-struck joy in which
Harold went home by my side, only at long intervals uttering some brief
phrase, such as "This is blessedness," or "Thank God, who gives women
such hearts."

He had told her all, and it had but added a reverent, enthusiastic pity
and fervour to that admiring love which had been growing up so long,
and to which he had set the spark.

His old friend was admit