“I think one ought to make the most of oneself, just as you want to rise in your profession! No, indeed, I could not bear you if you wanted me to sit down and idle, or to dawdle yourself.” “Don’t grow too clever for me.” “Mother always says that a real man has stuff in him that is quite different from cleverness, and yet I could not bear to give that up. I am so glad you don’t mind.” “Mind! I mind nothing but to know you are caring for me. And you will write to me?” “I shan’t know what to say. You will tell of volcanoes, and Athens, and Constantinople, and Egypt, and the Holy Land, and I shall have nothing to say but who lectures in college.” “Little you know what that will be to me.” It was a curious sensation all the time to Gillian, with a dawning sense that was hardly yet love--she was afraid of that--but of something good and brave and worthy that had become hers. She had felt something analogous when the big deer-hound at Stokesley came and put his head upon her lap. But the hound showed himself grateful for caresses, and so did her present giant when the road grew rough, and she let him draw her arm into his and talk to her. It was the parting, for he had to go to London and to his own family the next day early. Gillian spoke not a word all through the dark drive to Clipstone, but when the party emerged into the light her eyes were full of tears. Lady Merrifield followed her to her room, and her words half choked were-- “Mamma, I never knew what a great, solemn, holy thing _it_ is. Will you look me out a prayer to help me to get worthy?” CHAPTER XXIII. -- ILLUMINATIONS ‘Twas in the summer-time so sweet, When hearts and flowers are both in season, That who, of all the world should meet, In “twilight eve,” but Love and Reason. T. MOORE. That moon and sparkling lights did not shine alone for Gerald and Dolores. There were multitudes on the cliffs and the beach, and Sir Ferdinand and Lady Travis Underwood with their party had come to an irregular sort of dinner-supper at St. Andrew’s Rock. With them, or rather before them, came Mr. Bramshaw, the engineer, who sent in his card to Mr. Clement Underwood, and entered with a leathern bag, betraying the designs on Penbeacon.