as if she were out of the body; he received from her unconsciousness the impression of something rarely pure and fine, and he had a sudden compassion for her, as for something precious that is fated to be wasted or misprized. At a little movement which he made to relieve himself from a sense of eavesdropping, she gave a start, and shut her lips upon the little cry that would have escaped from another sort of woman. “I didn't know you were here,” she said; and she flushed with the shyness of him which she always showed at first. She had met him already with the rest, but they had scarcely spoken together; and he knew of the struggle she must now be making with herself when she went on: “I didn't know you had been called. I thought you were still sleeping.” “Yes. I seemed to sleep for centuries,” said West over, “and I woke up feeling coeval with Lion's Head. But I hope to grow younger again.” She faltered, and then she asked: “Did you see the light on it when the sun went down?” “I wish I hadn't. I could never get that light--even if it ever came again.” “It's there every afternoon, when it's clear.” “I'm sorry for that; I shall have to try for it, then.” “Wasn't that what you came for?” she asked, by one of the efforts she was making with everything she said. He could have believed he saw the pulse throbbing in her neck. But she held herself stone-still, and he divined her resolution to conquer herself, if she should die for it. “Yes, I came for that,” said Westover. “That's what makes it so dismaying. If I had only happened on it, I shouldn't have been responsible for the failure I shall make of it.” She smiled, as if she liked his lightness, but doubted if she ought. “We don't often get Lion's Head clear of snow.” “Yes; that's another hardship,” said the painter. “Everything is against me! If we don't have a snow overnight, and a cloudy day to-morrow, I shall be in despair.” She played with the little wheel of the wick; she looked down, and then, with a glance flashed at him, she gasped: “I shall have to take your lamp for the table tea is ready.” “Oh, well, if you will only take me with it. I'm frightfully hungry.” Apparently she could not say anything to that. He tried to get the lamp to carry it out for her, but she would not let him. “It isn't heavy,” she said, and hurried out before him. It was all nothing, but it was all very charming, and Westover was richly content with it; and yet not content, for he felt that the pleasure of it was not truly his, but was a moment of merely borrowed happiness. The table was laid in the old farm-house sitting-room where he had been served alone when he first came to Lion's Head. But now he sat down with the whole family, even to Jombateeste, who brought in a faint odor of the barn with him.