I have never said, but I will say it here, that I know Doctor Urquhart likes me--better than any other of my family; better, perhaps, than any friend he has, for he has not many. He is a man of great kindliness of nature, but few personal attachments. I have heard him say “that though he liked a great many people, only one or two were absolutely necessary to him.” Dallas might have been, had he lived. He told me, one day, there was a certain look in me which occasionally reminded him of Dallas. It is by these little things that I guess he likes me--at least, enough to make me feel, when with him, that rest and content that I never feel with those who do not care for me. I made him laugh, and he made me laugh, several times, about trifles that, now I call them to mind, were not funny at all. Yet “it takes a wise man to make a fool, and none but a fool is always wise.” With which sapient saying we consoled ourselves, standing at the edge of the larger pool, watching the other couple strolling along, doubtless very busy over the wild-duck affair. “Your sister and Treherne seem to suit one another remarkably well. I doubted once if they would.” “So did I. It ought to be a warning to us against hasty judgments. Especially here.” Mischief prompted the latter suggestion, for Doctor Urquhart must have recollected, as well as I did, the last and only time he and I had walked across this moorland-road, when we had such a serious quarrel, and I was more passionate and rude to him than I ever was to anybody--out of my own family. I hope he has forgiven me. Yet he was a little wrong too. “Yes, especially here,” he repeated, smiling--so I have no doubt he did remember. Just then, Lisabel's laugh, and her husband's with it, rang distantly across the pool. “They seem very happy, those two.” I said, I felt sure they were, and that it was a blessed thing to find, the older one grew, how very much of happiness there is in life. “Do you think so?” “Do _you_ not think so?” “I do; but not in your sense exactly. Remember, Miss Theodora, people see life in a different aspect at twenty-five and at--” “Forty. I know that.” “That I am forty? Which I am not quite, by the bye. No doubt it seems to you a most awful age.” I said, it was perhaps for a woman, but for a man no more than the prime of life, with many years before him in which both to work and enjoy. “Yes, for work is enjoyment, the only enjoyment that ever satisfies.” He stood gazing across the moorland, _my_ moorland, which put on its best smile for us to-day. Ay, though the heather was brown, and the furze-bushes had lost their gold. But so long as there is free air, sunshine, and sky, the beauty never can vanish from my beloved moor. I wondered how anyone could look at it and not enjoy it; could stand here as we stood and not be satisfied. Perhaps in some slight way I hinted this, at least, so far as concerned myself, to whom everything seemed so delicious, after this month of sorrow.