We gazed at each other, she with a blush on her cheeks, but with no false modesty or reserve, and I in a dream of happiness. "I have taken you by surprise?" "The pleasantest of surprises. Every day we have been hoping you would come; every day we have been looking out for you." "And your mother--how is she?" "Better, she says, and brighter--Oh, so much brighter! What do we not owe you?" "I beg you never to say that again. You owe me nothing. One day I may perhaps tell you what I owe you. Your mother is better. That is good news. And you--but I need scarcely ask." "I have never been so well." "More good news. The day is propitious. You saw me coming?" "Mother and I were sitting by the open window. We are not overrun by company; that makes it all the more delightful." "You are fond of the country?" "I love it. We are closer to what is best in the world. There is my mother at the window. She thinks it so strange that she has never seen you." "Well, she will see me now--and will be disappointed." "No, no. That is not possible. You are her hero." "Ah, that makes it all the more certain. We raise an ideal; best never to see it in flesh and blood. Reality is a disenchanter. Far better to continue to dream." As I said this I gazed at Ellen, and there must have been a growing earnestness in my gaze. I had raised an ideal of her--had it met with disappointment? I was self-convicted. "I recant," I added in a tone of satisfaction. "I am glad," she said, and my heart beat more quickly at the thought that she understood me. We were within a dozen yards of the farmhouse. "Does your mother recognize us?" "Hardly. She is very short-sighted." "Let us walk quickly." Mrs. Cameron rose, her hand at her heart, in a state of agitation. I observed that she rose with difficulty; before we reached her she sank into her chair. "It is Mr. Fletcher, mother." I prevented her from rising again, perceiving that she was not strong, and I did not interrupt the little speech in which she gratefully welcomed me. There was a strong likeness between her and Ellen; though worn with suffering, I noticed the same delicately cut features, the same trustful eyes, in which the spirit of goodness shone. Sitting there, talking to her, it seemed to me as if I had rejoined a family knit to me by close ties of sympathy and kinship. Ellen had taken up her work, and was busy with her needle. "What is it you are making?" I asked. "A dress for one of the landlady's children," she replied. On a chair by Mrs. Cameron's side was another dress of a similar character. "We are not good dressmakers," said Mrs. Cameron; "but we manage these little frocks very well. Our landlady has a large family." "Are you working for money?" I inquired, gravely. "Yes." "But it is against the rules. You did not come here to work." "We cannot be idle," said Mrs. Cameron. "It is not work; it is pleasure. When night comes we lay the needle aside. It was not so in London."