“But I would scarcely ride back for a second look,” he responded, in a subdued tone of voice, while looking with sad expressiveness into her eyes. These were cast down upon the instant, and the color upon her cheeks was heightened. “Come,” said she, making an effort, “there is nothing here to interest us.” “Except memory,” he replied; “I shall never forget the spot.” She hurried forward, and he joined her. She had received the impression which he intended to convey, without declaring as much--namely, that his return to Charlemont had been prompted by that one glimpse which he had then had of her person. Still, that nothing should be left in doubt, he proceeded to confirm the impression by other suggestions:-- “You promise to show me a scene of strange beauty, but your whole village is beautiful, Miss Cooper. I remember how forcibly it struck me as I gained the ascent of the opposite hills coming in from the east. It was late in the day, the sun was almost setting, and his faintest but loveliest beams fell upon the cottages in the valley, and lay with a strange, quiet beauty among the grass-plats, and the flower-ranges, and upon the neat, white palings.” “It is beautiful,” she said with a sigh, “but its beauty does not content me. It is too much beauty; it is too soft; for, though it has its rocks and huge trees, yet it lacks wildness and sublimity. The rocks are not sufficiently abrupt, the steeps not sufficiently great; there are no chasms, no waterfalls--only purling brooks and quiet walks.” “I have felt this already,” he replied; “but there is yet a deficiency which you have not expressed, Miss Cooper.” “What is that?” she demanded. “It is the moral want. You have no life here; and that which would least content me would be this very repose--the absence of provocation--the strife--the triumph! These, I take it, are the deficiencies which you really feel when you speak of the want of crag, and chasm, and waterfall.” “You, too, are ambitious, then!” she said quickly; “but how do you reconcile this feeling with your profession?” She looked up, and caught his eye tenderly fixed upon her. “Ah!” said he, “Miss Cooper, there are some situations in which we find it easy to reconcile all discrepancies.” If the language lacked explicitness, the look did not. He proceeded:-- “If I mistake not, Miss Cooper, you will be the last one to blame me for not having stifled my ambition, even at the calls of duty and profession.” “Blame you, sir? Far from it. I should think you very unfortunate indeed, if you could succeed in stifling ambition at any calls, nor do I exactly see how duty should require it.” “If I pursue the profession of the divine?” he answered hesitatingly. “Yes--perhaps--but that is not certain?” There was some timidity in the utterance of this inquiry. He evaded it.