Sheila looked back, but there was no sign of the rest of the party, and she followed Ronald perforce. She had a vaguely uneasy feeling that her aunt was not pleased with her, and she would rather have avoided all cause of offence, and she thought this might possibly be one. Since that New Year’s Eve night something had been creeping into Sheila’s life which she did not altogether understand—something that made her happy, yet pensive, restless sometimes, and sometimes half afraid of her own thoughts and dreams. She strove to banish the thoughts and feelings which she did not understand, but they would not be altogether banished, though she often managed to forget them or push them out of sight. She had been a child so long that she did not know what it meant—this waking of her womanhood within her. Yet some instinct had made her keep very close to Lady Dumaresq and little Guy at starting, whilst Ronald had ridden beside Effie’s hammock through the town, wherever the streets were wide enough, amusing her with his gay talk, and pointing out things which he thought might interest her as they went along. But with the ascent through the narrow lanes, and up the very steep places, this order had been broken. The horses took matters into their own hands. The fast animals gradually distanced bullocks, hammock bearers, and the pony which little Guy bestrode, and beside which his mother walked her horse, and Sheila found herself riding with Ronald some considerable distance in advance of the rest. She did not know why she had a feeling that her aunt would be displeased, and gradually in Ronald’s merry talk she forgot her misgiving. It was so delightful leaving behind the region of walls and houses, and getting out into the open country—seeing leafless trees again, just like England—although other things were not much like, for oranges and lemons grew freely, and the scent of orange blossom was heavy sometimes in the air, and arum lilies growing wild evoked rapturous exclamations from the girl. “Isn’t it delicious?” she cried. “I do like to see bare trees again! I don’t think it is very pretty when the old leaves hang on through the winter. It gives them such a shabby look. The air up here feels just like England on an April day, doesn’t it? Dear old England! We always grumble at its weather, but there’s something about it that makes us always want to go back.” “Do you want to go back already?” asked Ronald. “Oh, no!” she answered quickly. “Not a bit—not now. But you know what I mean—the sort of feeling that it is home.” And then she suddenly stopped, and the shadow swept over her face. Ronald had learnt to know that face so well that he was able to read it like a book. He knew just what she was thinking. He would like to have put out a hand and taken hers, but he was afraid of startling her. Yet he spoke what he knew would be an answer to her unspoken thought.