“Fat with it, the pig. She woke up when I was having a bath out of a basin and thanked God that she was not a fool. The basin has a design of willow-trees done on it, and someone fishing. Do you fish?” “Indeed, yes. Nothing I like better on a summer or autumn afternoon.” “Well, I’ll fish with you. We’ll go right to the other end of the Lake by ourselves and fish all the afternoon. There’s some beauties in here. I saw them swimming past the rock I was standing on. It’s very deep, too—quite black with depth, and clear—like a black crystal. I sometimes think it looks more interesting under water, among water-plants, than above it. Don’t you?” They made their way along the shore of the Lake, talking hard and laughing, smelling the water-smell and the early-morning smell. Sometimes they went on lawns, crossing the deep red or bright emerald bridges that spanned the rivulets; sometimes they trod among pebbles at the water’s edge; and sometimes, where the quaint hills came right down to the Lake, they had to scramble round sheer cliffs, jumping over the deep water from fragment to fragment of broken rock. At one place they had to creep under the bend of a slender, splashing cataract; at another they passed a man fishing. He took no notice of them. Gently the air filled with the delicate splendours of the risen sun, and the steep island of rock out in the middle stood clearly to view. A breeze stirred the water. “When the wind ruffles the Lake it looks like a meadow of snowdrops and violets,” said Lychnis. “I don’t see a sign of life on the island, do you?” “Nothing but the foliage and the flowers.” They had come now to a bay with a lawn shelving to the water. Lychnis stood with her hands behind her, looking seriously at the Rock. “Oh,” she exclaimed abruptly, “look at the swans!” A noble flotilla, led by a god-like bird with frowning brows, swam royally towards them. “How they stare!” She seemed fascinated. “Are they so different from us—in their lives, I mean, in their thoughts and feelings? Are we related to swans, Ambrose? I feel that I know them. I think I know them as well as I know people. Ambrose”—she bent her brows on him—“I think I shall ask you questions soon—to-day, perhaps. May I?” “But yes, my silver birch.” She considered. “Last night, Ambrose, Quentin kissed me!” “Oh yes?” She glanced at him, but her eyes were full of her thoughts. “Yes, he kissed me. I went back to him after you’d gone. The night was so strange and exciting. It was full of some promise. The night was full of some dark, passionate flower, waiting to open if I had the secret. I tried.” “And you found it?”