"He used to do a good deal of it at times before he was ill," said Isabella. "At one time he had an idea of taking it up seriously, but he was always too fond of being out of doors to stick to anything that kept him in. I remember one Long Vacation he arranged a studio in one of the barns, and declared he was going to work in deadly earnest; but after a while the longing to be out became too strong to be resisted and we heard no more of his career as an artist. No one ever had such a love of nature and sunshine and the open air as he had, and he loved the place so, every field and every tree." "I wish I had known him then. Oh, Isabella, doesn't it seem extraordinary to think of all that has happened in these last few weeks? I was in such a stupid frame of mind when I came here--so self-centred and so dissatisfied--and now, everything is changed for me. First came all the interest and the intense pity I felt, and then, little by little, love grew without my knowing it until it filled my heart, and I know that whatever happens life can never be the same again to me. It seems so wonderful that everything can be changed in a moment. Does love always come like that? The realisation of it, I mean. I suppose not. Oh, I am sorry for the people who have never felt it. I can hardly believe that I am the same person who grumbled at life being empty a little while ago, for now it is so good to be alive." She stretched out her arms with a welcoming gesture that seemed to embrace the whole world. Then she turned quickly. "Forgive me, Isabella," she said with a little happy smile; "forgive me for talking about myself, I don't know what made me do it. I think my heart was so full it just had to come out. Now let us talk of something else. How is the book getting on?" "Not very well, I am afraid. I must confess it has not progressed much the last few days; partly because I have not been quite in the mood for it, which is a terrible confession of weakness, and partly because Mrs. Palling has been on the war-path.