“Never mind, Sheila, some day you will have a real home of your own again—a home that will be happier even than the one you have lost.” She lifted her eyes to his with a glance half startled and wholly sweet. It thrilled him through and through, and words trembled on his lips that he was yet half afraid to utter. If he spoke too soon he might lose all. He hoped—he believed—that he might win her for his own. But she was such a child still. He must have patience. There was time—plenty of time. Little by little he would teach her to understand what she was to him. Before they went back to England he hoped to have won her promise to be his—and go back to make for her that home which in his fancy he was already building. “You are always so kind to me,” she said softly, “you always understand.” The slight emphasis upon the pronoun made him ask, smiling— “And who is it that does not understand?” “Oh, my aunt—and Effie; they think that their house is home, and can’t understand what I mean. Of course, I am grateful to them. I have been quite happy there often. But it cannot be the same, and they do not seem to understand.” “You must come and see us when we get back to England,” said Ronald cheerfully. “We shall expect you on a long visit. Little Guy will see to that if nobody else does. Would you like that, Sheila? I beg your pardon, I ought not to call you that. It comes through hearing you always spoken of by that soft name.” “I like you to call me Sheila,” said the girl shyly, and with a soft blush. “I have never been called anything else by friends—till quite lately.” “Well, when we are by ourselves I should like to,” said Ronald, “and you must do the same by me. I think it is much nicer when people are real friends to drop ceremonious titles.” After that the ride seemed all sunshine to both of them. Ronald thought he had sufficiently advanced his cause, and abstained from any more direct overtures; but he talked in a fashion that was delightful to his companion, and the exhilarating freshness of the air and the beauty of everything about them seemed a fit setting for their happiness, as they rode along together side by side in the clear soft sunshine. “Here we are!” cried Ronald at length, as they reached the green plateau at the summit of the hill. “There is the clock-tower that the doctor built. Do you know that before they had that, the people here had no means of knowing the time—and that on market days, or when they wanted to get down early in Funchal, they used often to get up in the middle of the night, and sit up watching for the dawn, afraid to go to sleep again lest they should not awake in time.” From the edge of the plateau there were beautiful views of the sea, and away to the left the long jagged line of the reef running out to the east from the most easterly portion of the island. The sea seemed sleeping and dreaming away below them. It looked more like the blue Mediterranean than the storm-tossed Atlantic.