Ten minutes later she stood, lost in a dream, beside the stream as it flowed through a field, three hundred yards distant from the house. It swept here round a curve, its course being partly arrested by a bank of shingle; and beyond the shingle, in its détour, it poured in a rustling flow, bubbling soft whispers and singing to itself. This hour after breakfast was Phyllys' most free time. At eleven o'clock, if not sooner, Barbara would remorselessly summon her to practise and read and darn. Time spent in the open air was wasted in the elder cousin's estimation. Barbara believed in a brisk constitutional, to and from a given point within a given time, for health; but she never lounged under a tree, never dallied by a stream, in dreamy thought. That with her meant "idleness." With Phyllys it neither meant nor was idleness. She was not idle, standing on the grass bank, motionless, her hands clasped behind her back. She wore no hat, and a breeze stirred her hair, bringing forth reddish gleams. Her mind was at work. She loved Nature, loved the beauty of flower and fell; read meanings in the voices of running water, rustling leaves, singing birds. These things appealed to her artist-nature, and drew her on to deeper thought. When she could escape from home and its restraints, she was happy in what is called solitude, because in touch with her surroundings. Yet, even in her happiest hours, she was conscious of a want. She craved for some one to understand what she felt, to enjoy the beauty with her. She craved to find the inner meanings of life. There was such an infinitude that she could not fathom; and clues were lacking. This morning her thoughts were chiefly occupied with Giles. Once before she had seen him, when a child of nine; and then for years she had been abroad, travelling with her widowed mother, in search of lost health, never to be regained. Since her mother's death she had lived at Midfell, paying an occasional visit to friends of her grandmother, but secluded from other influences. Often she had heard of Giles and Colin, though not in terms of praise. Mrs. Wyverne had rather implied than asserted condemnation; but according to Barbara, Giles and his friends were one and all to be avoided, as a dainty person shuns pitch; and to withhold Phyllys from their influence was a matter of duty. Which opinion, naturally, made Phyllys want to know them! For years her dream of impossible delights had been—a visit to Castle Hill. Now the unlikely had come about. She had seen Giles, had talked with him had felt that she and he might become friends. She felt it still, though vexed with herself for letting the thought so soon slip into words. And she might be again invited to Castle Hill. "If only I could go! To know what it is to live! This is existence! And oh! to get away from Barbara and Miss Robins. Even—for a time—from Grannie!"