Such was Vernon's winding up of his brief drama of fantasy. He was aware of the fantastical element in him and soon had it under. Which of us who is of any worth is without it? He had not much vanity to trouble him, and passion was quiet, so his task was not gigantic. Especially be it remarked, that he was a man of quick pace, the sovereign remedy for the dispersing of the mental fen-mist. He had tried it and knew that nonsense is to be walked off. Near the end of the park young Crossjay overtook him, and after acting the pumped one a trifle more than needful, cried: "I say, Mr. Whitford, there's Miss Middleton with her handkerchief out." "What for, my lad?" said Vernon. "I'm sure I don't know. All of a sudden she bumped down. And, look what fellows girls are!--here she comes as if nothing had happened, and I saw her feel at her side." Clara was shaking her head to express a denial. "I am not at all unwell," she said, when she came near. "I guessed Crossjay's business in running up to you; he's a good-for-nothing, officious boy. I was tired, and rested for a moment." Crossjay peered at her eyelids. Vernon looked away and said: "Are you too tired for a stroll?" "Not now." "Shall it be brisk?" "You have the lead." He led at a swing of the legs that accelerated young Crossjay's to the double, but she with her short, swift, equal steps glided along easily on a fine by his shoulder, and he groaned to think that of all the girls of earth this one should have been chosen for the position of fine lady. "You won't tire me," said she, in answer to his look. "You remind me of the little Piedmontese Bersaglieri on the march." "I have seen them trotting into Como from Milan." "They cover a quantity of ground in a day, if the ground's flat. You want another sort of step for the mountains." "I should not attempt to dance up." "They soon tame romantic notions of them." "The mountains tame luxurious dreams, you mean. I see how they are conquered. I can plod. Anything to be high up!" "Well, there you have the secret of good work: to plod on and still keep the passion fresh." "Yes, when we have an aim in view." "We always have one." "Captives have?" "More than the rest of us." Ignorant man! What of wives miserably wedded? What aim in view have these most woeful captives? Horror shrouds it, and shame reddens through the folds to tell of innermost horror. "Take me back to the mountains, if you please, Mr. Whitford," Miss Middleton said, fallen out of sympathy with him. "Captives have death in view, but that is not an aim." "Why may not captives expect a release?" "Hardly from a tyrant." "If you are thinking of tyrants, it may be so. Say the tyrant dies?" "The prison-gates are unlocked and out comes a skeleton. But why will you talk of skeletons! The very name of mountain seems life in comparison with any other subject."