'I can stay, since you are good enough to wish it,' he said a trifle formally; 'and you know I shall be only too happy to walk anywhere you like with you.' 'How accommodating!' said Gladys, with a faint touch of ironical humour. 'Well, let us go up to the birch wood. We shall see the moon rising shortly, if you care about anything so commonplace as the rising of a moon. To Australia? And when will you come back, Walter?' 'I can't say--perhaps never.' 'And will it cost you no pang to turn your back on the land of brown heath and shaggy wood, which her children are supposed to adore?' she asked, still in her old bantering mood. 'She has not done much for me; I leave few but painful memories behind,' he answered, with a touch of kindness in his voice. 'But I will not say I go without a pang.' They remained silent as Gladys led the way through the shrubbery walk, and up the steep and somewhat rugged way to the birch wood crowning the little hill which sheltered Bourhill from the northern blast. It was a still and beautiful evening, with a lovely softness in the air, suggestive of a universal resting after the stress of the harvest. From the summit of the little hill they looked across many a fair breadth of goodly land, where the reapers had been so busy that scarce one field of growing corn was to be seen. All the woods were growing mellow, and the fulness and plenty of the autumn were abroad in the land. 'It's dowie at the hint o' hairst, at the wa' gaun o' the swallow,' quoted Walter in a low voice, and his eye grew moist as it ranged across the beautiful landscape with something of that unutterable and painful longing with which, the exile takes his farewell of the land he loves. 'Walter,' said Gladys quite softly, as she leaned against the straight white trunk of a rowan tree, on which the berries hung rich and red, 'I have often thought of you since that sad day. Often I wished to write, but I knew that you would come when you felt like it. Did you understand?' 'I heard that your marriage was broken off, and I thanked God for that,' Walter answered; and Gladys heard the tremor in his voice, and saw his firm, hue mouth take a long, stern curve. 'It did not surprise you?' she asked in the same soft, far-off voice, which betrayed nothing but the gentlest sisterly confidence and regard. 'No, but I suffered agony enough till I heard it. When, one lives through such dark days as these were, Gladys, faith in humankind becomes very difficult. I feared lest your scruples might be overcome.' 'I am sorry you had such a fear for me, Walter, even for a moment, but perhaps it was natural. And when will you come back from this dreadful Australia, did you say?' 'Perhaps never.'