“Not in June,” she cried, throwing the plaid upon his shoulder. It was nine o’clock of the long evening, but as light still as day, a day perfected, but subdued, without sun, without shadow, like, if any thing human can be like, the country where there is neither sun nor moon, but the Lamb is the light thereof. The moor lay under the soft radiance in a perfect repose, no corner in it that was not visible, yet all mystery, spellbound in that light that never was on sea or shore. At noon, with all the human accidents of sun and shade, they could scarcely have seen their own faces, or the long distance of the broken land stretched out beyond, or the hills dreaming around in a subdued companionship, as clearly as now, yet all in a magical strangeness that overawed and hushed the heart. Even Lily’s cares--that one care, rather, which was so little, yet so great, almost vulgar to speak of, yet meaning to her every thing that was best on earth--were hushed. The stillness of the shining night, which was day; the silence of the great moor, with all its wild fresh scents and murmurs of sound subdued; the vast round of cloudless sky, still with traces on it of the sunset, but even those forming but an undertone to the prevailing softness of the blue--were beyond all reach of human frettings and struggles. They were on the eve of discovering that the earth had been rent between them, closely though they stood together, but in a moment the edges of the chasm had disappeared, the green turf and the heather, with its buds forming on every bush, spread over every horrible division. Lily put her arm within her husband’s with a long, tremulous sigh. What did any uneasy wish matter, any desire even if desperate, compared with this peace of God that was upon the hills and the moor and the sky? I doubt, however, whether all of this made it easier for Ronald to clear himself at last of the burden of the unfulfilled trust. When she said next morning, with a catch in her breath, but as perfect an aspect of calm as she could put on: “You have told me nothing about our house,” his color and his breath also owned for a moment an embarrassment which it was difficult to face. She had said it while he stood at the window looking out, with his back toward her. She had not wished to confront him, to fix him with her eyes, to have the air of bringing him to an account. Ronald turned round from the window after a momentary pause. He came up to her and took both her hands in his. “My bonnie Lily!” he said. “Oh,” she cried with sudden impatience, drawing her hands from him, “call me by my simple name! I am your wife; I am not your sweetheart. Do I want to be always petted like a bairn?” “Lily!” he said, startled, and a little disapproving, “there is something wrong with you. I never thought you were one to be affected with nerves and such things.”