One day after dinner Will took a stroll among the firs; a grave beatitude possessed him from top to toe, and he kept smiling to himself and the landscape as he went. The river ran between the stepping-stones with a pretty wimple; a bird sang loudly in the wood; the hill-tops looked immeasurably high, and as he glanced at them from time to time seemed to contemplate his movements with a beneficent but awful curiosity. His way took him to the eminence which overlooked the plain; and there he sat down upon a stone, and fell into deep and pleasant thought. The plain lay abroad with its cities and silver river; everything was asleep, except a great eddy of birds which kept rising and falling and going round and round in the blue air. He repeated Marjory’s name aloud, and the sound of it gratified his ear. He shut his eyes, and her image sprang up before him, quietly luminous and attended with good thoughts. The river might run for ever; the birds fly higher and higher till they touched the stars. He saw it was empty bustle after all; for here, without stirring a feet, waiting patiently in his own narrow valley, he also had attained the better sunlight. The next day Will made a sort of declaration across the dinner-table, while the parson was filling his pipe. “Miss Marjory,” he said, “I never knew any one I liked so well as you. I am mostly a cold, unkindly sort of man; not from want of heart, but out of strangeness in my way of thinking; and people seem far away from me. ’Tis as if there were a circle round me, which kept every one out but you; I can hear the others talking and laughing; but you come quite close. Maybe, this is disagreeable to you?” he asked. Marjory made no answer. “Speak up, girl,” said the parson. “Nay, now,” returned Will, “I wouldn’t press her, parson. I feel tongue-tied myself, who am not used to it; and she’s a woman, and little more than a child, when all is said. But for my part, as far as I can understand what people mean by it, I fancy I must be what they call in love. I do not wish to be held as committing myself; for I may be wrong; but that is how I believe things are with me. And if Miss Marjory should feel any otherwise on her part, mayhap she would be so kind as shake her head.” Marjory was silent, and gave no sign that she had heard. “How is that, parson?” asked Will. “The girl must speak,” replied the parson, laying down his pipe. “Here’s our neighbour who says he loves you, Madge. Do you love him, ay or no?” “I think I do,” said Marjory, faintly. “Well then, that’s all that could be wished!” cried Will, heartily. And he took her hand across the table, and held it a moment in both of his with great satisfaction. “You must marry,” observed the parson, replacing his pipe in his mouth. “Is that the right thing to do, think you?” demanded Will. “It is indispensable,” said the parson. “Very well,” replied the wooer.