They crossed a stile that led into the fertile clover meadows. It seemed as though the beauty and fragrance of the summer morning broke into full glow to welcome them; the rosy clouds parted, and the sun shone in the full lustre of its golden light; the trees, the hedges, the clover, were all impearled with dew--the drops lay thick, shining and bright, on the grass; there was a faint twitter of birds, as though they were just awakening; the trees seemed to stir with new life and vigor. "Is this the morning?" said Hyacinth, looking round. "Why, Claude, it is a thousand times more beautiful than the fulness of day!" CHAPTER VII. Hyacinth and Claude stood together leaning against the stile. Something in the calm beauty of the summer morning awoke the brightest and purest emotions in him; something in the early song of the birds and in the shining dewdrops made Hyacinth think more seriously than she had yet done. "I wonder," she said, turning suddenly to her lover, "if we shall ever look back to this hour and repent what we have done?" "I do not think so. It will rather afford subject for pleasant reflection." "Claude," she cried suddenly, "what is that lying over there by the hedge? It--it looks so strange." He glanced carelessly in the direction indicated. "I can see nothing," he replied. "My eyes are not so bright as yours." "Look again, Claude. It is something living, moving--something human I am sure! What can it be?" He did look again, shading his eyes from the sun. "There is something," he said slowly, "but I cannot tell what it is." "Let us see, Claude; it may be some one ill. Who could it be in the fields at this time of the morning?" "I would rather you did not go," said Claude; "you do not know who it may be. Let me go alone." But she would not agree to it; and as they stood there, they heard a faint moan. "Claude," cried the girl, in deep distress, "some one is ill or hurt; let us go and render assistance." He saw that she was bent upon it and held out his hand to help her over the stile. Then when they were in the meadow, and under the hedge, screened from sight by rich, trailing woodbines, they saw the figure of a woman. "It is a woman, Claude!" cried Hyacinth; and then a faint moan fell on their ears. Hastening to the spot, she pushed aside the trailing eglantines. There lay a girl, apparently not much older than herself, fair of face, with a profusion of beautiful fair hair lying tangled on the ground. Hyacinth bent over her. "Are you ill?" she asked. But no answer came from the white lips. "Claude," cried Hyacinth, "she is dying! Make haste; get some help for her!" "Let us see what is the matter first," he said. The sound of voices roused the prostrate girl. She sat up, looking wildly around her, and flinging her hair from her face; then she turned to the young girl, who was looking at her with such gentle, wistful compassion. "Are you ill?" repeated Hyacinth. "Can we do any thing to help you?"