little world of wild, strange loveliness, shut in and
isolated from the prosaic outer world by the vast and towering masses of
Skiddaw and Blencathara--a world of one's own, as it were, a world
steeped in romance and poetry, dear to the souls of poets. There are
many such honeymoons every summer; indeed, the mountain paths, the
waterfalls and lakes swarm with happy lovers; and this land of hills and
waters seems to have been made expressly for honeymoon travellers; yet
never went truer lovers wandering by lake and torrent, by hill and
valley, than those two whose brief honeymoon was now drawing to a close.

It was altogether a magical time for Mary, this dawn of a new life. The
immensity of her happiness almost frightened her. She could hardly
believe in it, or trust in its continuance.

'Am I really, really, really your wife?' she asked on their last day,
bending down to speak to her husband, as he led her pony up the rough
ways of Skiddaw. 'It is all so dreadfully like a dream.'

'Thank God, it is the very truth,' answered Lord Hartfield, looking
fondly at the fresh young face, brightened by the summer wind, which
faintly stirred the auburn hair under the neat little hat.

'And am I actually a Countess? I don't care about it one little bit, you
know, except as a stupendous joke. If you were to tell me that you had
been only making fun of poor grandmother and me, and that those diamonds
are glass, and you only plain John Hammond, it wouldn't make the
faintest difference. Indeed, it would be a weight off my mind. It is an
awfully oppressive thing to be a Countess.'

'I'm sorry I cannot relieve you of the burden. The law of the land has
made you Lady Hartfield; and I hope you are preparing your mind for the
duties of your position.'

'It is very dreadful,' sighed Mary. 'If her ladyship were as well and as
active as she was when first you came to Fellside, she could have helped
me; but now there will be no one, except you. And you will help me,
won't you Jack?'

'With all my heart.'

'My own true Jack,' with a little fervent squeeze of his sunburnt hand.
'In society I suppose I shall have to call you Hartfield. "Hartfield,
please ring the bell." "Give me a footstool, Hartfield." How odd it
sounds. I shall be blurting out the old dear name.'

'I don't think it will much matter. It will pass for one of Lady
Hartfield's little ways. Every woman is supposed to have little ways,
don't you know. One has a little way o