“Why it's a mere skiff. Are you safe to trust yourself in such a thing?” asked he, for the canoe-shaped “cot” was new to him. “Of course!” said she, lightly stepping in. “There is even room for another.” Then, hastily changing her theme, she asked, “May I tell poor Tom what you have said to me, or is it just possible that you will come up one of these days and see us?” “If I might be permitted--” “Too much honor for us!” said she, with such a capital imitation of his voice and manner that he burst into a laugh in spite of himself. “Mayhap Miss Bamngton was not so far wrong: after all, you _are_ a terrible mimic.” “Is it a promise, then? Am I to say to my brother you will come?” said she, seriously. “Faithfully!” said he, waving his hand, for the boatmen had already got the skiff under weigh, and were sending her along like an arrow from a bow. Polly turned and kissed her hand to him, and Conyers muttered something over his own stupidity for not being beside her, and then turned sulkily back towards the cottage. A few hours ago and he had thought he could have passed his life here; there was a charm in the unbroken tranquillity that seemed to satisfy the longings of his heart, and now, all of a sudden, the place appeared desolate. Have you never, dear reader, felt, in gazing on some fair landscape, with mountain and stream and forest before you, that the scene was perfect, wanting nothing in form or tone or color, till suddenly a flash of strong sunlight from behind a cloud lit up some spot with a glorious lustre, to fade away as quickly into the cold tint it had worn before? Have you not felt then, I say, that the picture had lost its marvellous attraction, and that the very soul of its beauty had departed? In vain you try to recall the past impression; your memory will mourn over the lost, and refuse to be comforted. And so it is often in life: the momentary charm that came unexpectedly can become all in all to our imaginations, and its departure leave a blank, like a death, behind it.