He offered no protest, and they mounted a stiff rise in silence, the Vicar keeping up an easy long-limbed swing, born of habit. No quickened breath troubled him; and the reins hung loosely over one wrist, or were flung upon the cob's back. Phyllys, deep in thought, showed no signs of fatigue, though this came at the end of a long journey. As they ascended, the widening view of distant moors, the rich tints of the fell over which their road led, spoke with the calming power which Nature has over some minds. Three times she forgot herself, standing in contemplation. Each time the Vicar halted, as if for Cobweb's sake; and the look which crept into her face gladdened his heart. A fourth time this happened, and she glanced towards him, smiling. "I didn't know how lovely it was!" she said. "Must we hurry? I didn't know how dearly I loved it all. Those wavy lines against the sky! And the purples and greens—and the bracken!" She remembered Colin's quotation,—"Drink it in with 'all' your eyes,"—and into the words new meaning dawned. Eyes of the body; eyes of the mind; eyes of the spirit. Through the eyes of the body, to the eyes of the mind; through the eyes of the mind, to the eyes of the spirit. Had Colin opened for her those inward eyes? She saw with them as never before. Nature around was as it ever had been; but for her it held fresh perfection, fresh meaning. She was enchained by the mouldings of the hill-sides, the delicate fadings of one tint into another. Each hummocked fell demanded hours of study. She would be able to give the hours; and Colin had taught her how to use them. Through the railway journey her thoughts had been much with Giles, and the look in his face when they parted. Sorry as she had been to leave, her sorrow was of a composite nature, made up of many elements. She began to see a contrast between him and herself; to realise the homogeneousness of his mental make. She wanted many things,—Castle Hill, Colin, Art, freedom, fresh ideas—as well as Giles. He wanted one thing—herself. She perceived this, after a fashion, without grasping that his "want" meant something infinitely beyond mere "friendship." She had a sense that Giles was giving her more than she could give him. Her feelings towards him were mixed. His towards her were unblended. Now, instead of thinking about him, she was thinking about Colin, recalling what Colin had said, studying old scenes in the light of Colin's teaching, wishing she could be in the studio with Colin. As at this moment she might have been—but for Barbara. Uprolled another wave of anger; and the Vicar saw. He had known it must return. She was not yet victor. She met his glance. "Why are people allowed to do such things?" she asked abruptly. "Such a beautiful world!—And 'such' people in it!" "Try to be fair," he said; irrelevantly some might have thought.