They had reached the gate of the Vicarage. Elsmere stopped and looked at his companion with a singular lightening of expression. He saw perfectly that the young impetuous creature understood him, that she felt his cause was not prospering and that she wanted to help him. He saw that what she meant by this picture of their common life was, that no one need expect Catherine Leyburn to be an easy prey; that she wanted to impress on him in her eager way that such lives as her sister’s were not to be gathered at a touch, without difficulty, from the branch that bears them. She was exhorting him to courage--nay he caught more than exhortation--a sort of secret message from her bright, excited looks and incoherent speech--that made his heart leap. But pride and delicacy forbade him to put his feelings into words. ‘You don’t hope to persuade me that your sister reckons you among the weak persons of the world?’ he said, laughing, his hand on the gate. Rose could have blessed him for thus turning the conversation. What on earth could she have said next? She stood bantering a little longer, and then ran off with Bob. Elsmere passed the rest of the morning wandering meditatively over the cloudy fells. After all he was only where he was before the blessed madness, the upflooding hope, nay, almost certainty, of yesterday. His attack had been for the moment repulsed. He gathered from Rose’s manner that Catherine’s action with regard to the picnic had not been unmeaning nor accidental, as on second thoughts he had been half-trying to persuade himself. Evidently those about her felt it to be ominous. Well, then, at worst, when they met they would meet on a different footing, with a sense of something critical between them. Oh, if he did but know a little more clearly how he stood! He spent a noonday hour on a gray rock on the side of the fell, between Whindale and Marrisdale, studying the path opposite, the stepping-stones, the bit of white road. The minutes passed in a kind of trance of memory. Oh, that soft, childlike movement to him, after his speech about her father! that heavenly yielding and self-forgetfulness which shone in her every look and movement as she stood balancing on the stepping-stones! If after all she should prove cruel to him, would he not have a legitimate grievance, a heavy charge to fling against her maiden gentleness? He trampled on the notion. Let her do with him as she would, she would be his saint always, unquestioned, unarraigned.