So far in their intercourse little points had arisen in which it had been for one or the other of them to take a step further, if it were to continue. She had stood waiting as Harry rode up to her, he had stopped, and she had spoken; he had walked with her; he had asked her to meet him again; he had brought her to the pool, and she had seated herself there to await what should come. The initiative had been more his than hers, and now it was his again. The fact of her taking her seat there, under the tree, was an invitation, though she may not have meant it as such. They might talk there through the long morning hours, but their talk could not be only of externals. It must be on a more intimate note, or they might just as well roam the woods together lightly. This green nook by the water, hidden and secret, was a shrine in which they would worship together, as yet they knew not what, but it would be something sacred and beautiful that was calling to both of them. There was silence between them for a moment—the silence of recollection which comes before an act of devotion. Then Harry looked up at her and said, with his voice trembling a little: "I’ve never told any one of this place before. I think I kept it for you." She smiled down at him, with the light soft in her eyes. "I’m glad you did that," she said. "I shall never forget it. It is so quiet and green and beautiful," she added, a little hurriedly, as if the meaning of her words might be mistaken. "I might have shown it to the children," he said, reflectively. "I don’t quite know why I didn’t. But I’m glad I didn’t, too." She asked him who the children were, and he told her about Jane and Pobbles, and the things that they had done together. She asked him a good many questions and was a little particular in fixing the exact date of Jane’s birth, and of her arrival at Royd. Harry answered all her questions and told her of the map that he had begun to draw for them the afternoon before. "It seems such ages ago," he said. "I was missing them both, but I don’t think I’ve given them a thought since, until just now." She allowed herself to soften towards Jane; for at one point she had suggested that she seemed rather precocious for so young a child. "Poor little things!" she said. "I’m sure they must miss you, too. You have been so good to them. And they are the only young friends you have had, aren’t they?" Talking of the children had a little lowered the note of intimacy. Her last words restored it. "Until I knew you," he answered. "And that’s such a very short time." "No; it’s a very long time. It’s all the time that matters." She smiled at him, and he went on. "Think of it, that only yesterday—yesterday, much later than this—I was feeling dull and unhappy. Then I rode out to the sea, and felt much better, but I didn’t know anything about you. Fancy—only yesterday I had never seen you."