fir trees. Somewhere among these trees
there was hidden a nightingale, which sang with intensity to Athens
spread out below, a small maze of mellow lights and of many not
inharmonious voices. Even in the night, and at a distance, they felt the
smiling intimacy of the little city they loved. Its history was like
a living thing dwelling among the shadows, hallowed and hallowing, its
treasures, like night flowers, breathed out a mysterious message to
them. They received it, and felt that they understood it. Had the
nightingale been singing to any city its song must have seemed to them
beautiful. But it was singing to Athens, and that fact gave to its
voice, in their ears, a magical meaning.

They sat for a while in silence. Nobody passed on the winding path.
Their impulse to solitude was unshared by the dwellers in Athens.
Neither knew exactly what thoughts were passing through the other's
mind, what aspirations were flaming up in the heart of the other. But
they knew that they were close bound in sympathy just then, voyaging
towards a common future. That future lay over the sea in gray England.
Their time in Greece was but an interlude. But in it they were
gathering up impressions, were laying in stores for their journey. The
nightingale's song was part of their provision. It had to sing to just
them for some hidden reason. And to Dion it seemed that the nightingale
knew the reason while they did not, that it comprehended all the under
things of love and of sorrow of which they were ignorant. When he spoke
again he said:

"A bird's song always makes me feel very unlearned. Do you know what I
mean?"

"Yes. We've got to learn so much."

"Together."

"Yes--partly."

"Partly?" he said quickly.

"I think there's a great deal that can only be learnt quite alone."

Again, as sometimes before, Dion trod on the verges of mystery, felt as
if something in Rosamund chided him, and was chilled for a moment.

"I dare say you are right," he said. "But I believe I could learn any
lesson more easily with you to help me."

"No, I don't think so."

"Perhaps we shall know which is right, you or I, when we've been much
longer together," he said, with an effort to speak lightly.

"Yes."

"Rosamund, sometimes you make me feel as if you thought I didn't know
you, I mean didn't know you thoroughly."

"Do I?"

"Yes."

Again silence fell between them. As Dion listened once more to the
persistent nightingale he felt that there