"I very often make resolutions never to be in a passion again," returned Edward, sorrowfully; "but whenever any thing provokes me, something seems to come in my throat, and I am compelled to give way." "You will not be able to conquer your fault, my dear Edward, without great perseverance; but remember, the more difficult the task, the greater the reward; and that you _can_ control anger I have, even during our walk, had a proof." Edward looked up surprised. "Did you not feel very angry when I said Robert was your superior?" "Yes," replied Edward, blushing deeply. "And yet you successfully checked your rising passion, for fear of offending me. I can not be always near you; but, my dear boy, you must endeavor to remember that lesson I have tried to teach you so often--that you are never _alone_. You can not even think an angry thought, much less speak an abusive word and commit the most trifling act of passion, without offending God. If you would but ask for His help, and recollect that to offend Him is far more terrible than to incur the displeasure of either your uncle or myself, I think you would find your task much easier, than if you attempted it, trusting in your own strength alone, and only for fear of man." Edward did not make any reply, but his countenance expressed such earnest thought and softened feeling, that Mrs. Hamilton determined on not interrupting it by calling at Moorlands as she had intended, and so turned in the direction of Greville Manor. They walked on for some little time in silence, gradually ascending one of those steep and narrow but green and flowery lanes peculiar to Devonshire; and on reaching the summit of the hill, and pausing a moment by the little gate that opened on a rich meadow, through which their path lay, an exclamation of "How beautiful!" burst from Edward. Fields of alternate red and green sloped down to the river's edge, the green bearing the glistening color peculiar to May, the red from the full rich soil betraying that the plow had but lately been there, and both contrasting beautifully with the limpid waters, whose deep azure seemed to mock the very heavens. The Dart from that point seemed no longer a meandering river: it was so encompassed by thick woods and fertile hills that it resembled a lake, to which there was neither outlet nor inlet, save from the land. The trees all presented that exquisite variety of green peculiar to May, and so lofty was the slope on which they grew, that some seemed to touch the very sky, while others bent gracefully over the water, which their thick branches nearly touched. The hills themselves presented a complete mosaic of red and green; the fields divided by high hedges, from which the oak and elm and beech and ash would start up, of growth so superb as to have the semblance of a cultivated park, not of natural woodland.