"The Duchess of Colle Alto and Miss Bellairs are in the library." "Are you quite sure that you _really_ wish to see them--that it will not tire you?" said Wentworth. "Quite sure." "I will bring them out." "No. Send one at a time. Fay first." Michael lay back and closed his eyes. * * * * * On this May morning as Fay and Magdalen drove together to Barford, Magdalen looked at her sister's radiant face, not with astonishment, she had got over that, but with something more like fear. The happiness of some natures terrifies those who love them by its appearance of brittleness. To Magdalen Fay's present joy seemed like a bit of Venetian glass on the extreme edge of a cabinet at a child's elbow. It is difficult for those who have imagination to understand the _insouciance_ which looks so like heartlessness of the unimaginative. The inevitable meeting with Michael seemed to cast no shadow on Fay's spirits; Wentworth's ignorance of certain sinister facts did not seem to disturb her growing love for him. Their way lay through a pine wood under the shoulder of the down. The whortleberry with its tiny foliage made a miniature forest of pale golden green at the feet of the dark serried trunks of the pines. Small yellow butterflies hovered amid the topmost branches of this underfoot forest. Fay leaned out of the pony carriage and picked from the high bank a spray of whortleberry with a butterfly poised on it. "I thought for one minute I might find a tiny, tiny butterfly nest with eggs in it," she said. "I do wish butterflies had nests like birds, Magdalen, don't you? But this is a new butterfly, not ready to fly. I shall hurt it unless I'm careful." She made her sister stop the pony, and knelt down amid the shimmering whortleberry, and tenderly placed the sprig with the butterfly still clinging to it in a little pool of sunshine. But as she did it the butterfly walked from its twig on to her white hand and rested on it, opening and shutting its wings. It was a pretty sight to watch Fay coax it to a leaf. But Magdalen's heart ached for her sister as she knelt in the sunshine. Words rose to her lips for the twentieth time, but she choked them down again. What use, what use to warn those who cannot be warned, to appeal to deaf ears, to point out to holden eyes the things that belong to their peace? The vision is the claim, but it must be our own eyes that see it. We may not look at our spiritual life through another man's eyes.