The towing-path which she had chosen was the same which Ethel had chosen one wintry afternoon, some months before. Only, the surroundings now were of green trees and golden sunshine, and of water reflecting a summer sky. Somebody was walking in front of Fulvia when she passed round the next river-bend—a slight girl, in a grey dress, with a shady hat, and movements so languid that they seemed to speak of ill-health. Fulvia did not pay any particular regard to her, being preoccupied. They were nearing a lock, and the girl paused to lean against one of the great gate-handles, as if for rest, turning towards Fulvia with the action. Fulvia saw her plainly then: saw a fragile-looking creature, with a delicate colourless face, and large blue eyes, dreamy and sad. She noticed the brown hair straying over the white brow, and noted even the thinness of the ungloved right hand, yet all without recognition, partly no doubt because she was herself so absorbed in thought. But a flash of recognition came to the other face. "How do you do, Fulvia?" "Ethel!" Fulvia could hardly believe her own senses. At the first moment an impatient throb shook her frame; for Ethel was Fulvia's dread. Thought for the altered girl before her followed quickly. "Ethel! I did not know you! Have you been ill?" "Not ill lately. Not very well, I suppose. I don't get up much strength somehow. Is it not a perfect day?" Fulvia stood still. She did not want a companion—Ethel Elvey least of all! Still she could not at once pass on. She was not personally fond of Ethel, and never had been; but their acquaintance dated from infant days, and Fulvia was kind-hearted. It was impossible not to pause, in view of Ethel's changed look. "Daisy said something—" she began, and broke off. "I know you had scarlatina; but that is so long ago." "Ages—isn't it?" Ethel said, smiling. "And I have been an immense time in the country since, doing nothing. Yes, in North Wales. Snowdon is so beautiful. There is nothing in the world like mountains. They seem to bring one nearer heaven?' "Are you talking poetically?" "Am I? No; I don't think so." "Did you go up Snowdon?" "Once, on pony back. I did not try it a second time." "Has looking on a mountain from below the same effect?" "What effect?" "Bringing you—what you said just now." "Yes." Ethel did not explain her meaning. She went on in a quiet and natural tone—"How is Nigel? I have not seen him yet." "He is all right. He has gone boating with Malcolm." "Up the river?" "No, down." "I was not sure. Malcolm did not say, but I fancied they would go up." "No; Nigel told me. Are you going home now?" "Not yet, perhaps; but I must rest for a few minutes, and I am in a mood for loitering to-day. Don't wait, if you would rather go fast," said Ethel, with a recollection of Fulvia's energetic ways. She smiled again that curious smile, sunny, yet sad.