of
that day--that shrouded day--standing sentinel at the end of the week.
They never spoke of it, but they never forgot it. It entered into each
clinging grasp he gave her hand as he helped her up or down some steep
or rugged bit of path--into the lingering look of her brown eyes, which
thanked him, smiling--into the moments of silence, when they rested amid
the springing bracken, and the whole scene of mountain, cloud and water
spoke with that sudden tragic note of all supreme beauty, in a world of
'brittleness.' But they were not often silent. There was so much to
say. They were still exploring each other, after the hurry of their
marriage, and short engagement. For a time she chattered to him about
her own early life--their old red-brick house in a Manchester suburb,
with its good-sized rooms, its mahogany doors, its garden, in which her
father used to work--his only pleasure, after his wife's death, besides
'the concerts'--'You know we've awfully good music in Manchester!' As
for her own scattered and scanty education, she had begun to speak of it
almost with bitterness. George's talk and recollections betrayed quite
unconsciously the standards of the academic or highly-trained
professional class to which all his father's kindred belonged; and his
only sister, a remarkably gifted girl, who had died of pneumonia at
eighteen, just as she was going to Girton, seemed to Nelly, when he
occasionally described or referred to her, a miracle--a terrifying
miracle--of learning and accomplishment.

Once indeed, she broke out in distress:--'Oh, George, I don't know
anything! Why wasn't I sent to school! We had a wretched little
governess who taught us nothing. And then I'm lazy--I never was
ambitious--like Bridget. Do you mind that I'm so stupid--do you mind?'

And she laid her hands on his knee, as they sat together among the fern,
while her eyes searched his face in a real anxiety.

What joy it was to laugh at her--to tease her!

'_How_ stupid are you, darling? Tell me, exactly. It is of course a
terrible business. If I'd only known--'

But she would be serious.

'I don't know _any_ languages, George! Just a little French--but you'd
be ashamed if you heard me talking it. As to history--don't ask!' She
shrugged her shoulders despairingly. Then her face brightened. 'But
there's something! I do love poetry--I've read a lot of poetry.'

'That's all right--so have I,' he said, promptly.

'Isn't it strange--' her tone was