Again that morning, when she had scoured the plates and set them in a little rocky basin by the quivering moss, he proposed the mountain climb. In half an hour they were at the top. It was a plateau of volcanic rock, with scrubs of hazel, and bents and reeds and harebells ceaselessly stroked by the wind. Behind them, as they sat down under a rock, only Mynedd Mawr rose higher than they; below them Llyn Delyn lay like a bit of grey looking-glass set in its little mile-long cleft. They had raised other bits of looking-glass, too, in other far-off clefts. About them the mountains rolled as if invisible giants were being tossed in the visible blankets of the land. On the left only, far from Llanyglo, a scratch of silver showed that the sea was there. "So you're off to-morrow," he said, when they had lain long. He did not hide from himself the ache the words caused him. "My tick-ket say to-morrow," she answered, without emotion. He muttered something foolish about an extension.--"But I suppose they wouldn't keep your place open," he answered himself hopelessly. Her next words caused him a marvellous pang of lightness and hope. "I think-k I not go back," she said, the seaweed eyes looking at that far-off silver scratch that was the sea. Why did that pang at which he had winced instantly become another pang, at which he winced no less? What was it that the eyes of his spirit saw, far, far, farther off than her seaweed ones saw the sea? Her decision to stay, if she really meant that she would stay, should have meant the continuance of his happiness; what, then, should change it into something like an unhappiness and a fear? He did not know. He was only an ordinary young man. He only knew that over that moment, which should have been one of a care removed, a faint shadow of an irremovable care already impinged. He had sat up, and was looking at her.--"You mean--that you won't go back at all?" he said. "Indeed I think I cannot go back," she answered; and her imperfect speech left it uncertain whether indeed she meant that she was still unresolved, or whether to her, who had not been able to endure a night in Llanyglo, a return to Liverpool would be more than she could bear. "But--but--what would you do?" he asked. "I stay here lit-tle longer, and then I get wick-ker from Dafydd Dafis, and mend chairs, like my mother." "But--but----" It was so new to his experience. "You mean you'd just go from place to place?" "If I go to Liverpool I die," she answered.