It was a feast for eye and heart. The artist soul of the woman drank in all the broad, calm, peaceful beauty of it, and her eyes dwelt lovingly upon every exquisite curve of distant hill, on every silver link in the windings of the placid river. She put her hand upon her sketch-book—opened it; even took her pencil in her hand; then laid it down again, with a restless sigh breaking from her lips. She felt the need of being alone, and yet, now that she was alone, she dreaded to acknowledge her own state of mind to herself. Her thoughts were vague and disconnected. There was a prevailing sensation that the old life no longer satisfied her. She knew that between her and her rejoicing fulness of contentment in her art, a barrier had arisen. A third thought now always intruded between herself and her purpose. She could handle no pencil, take up no book, behold no beautiful thing, form no plans for the future, without the influence of Jerome Wellfield making itself overpoweringly felt. At times—at this moment, even—she almost resented this new feeling; longed for freedom, and revolted at finding her soul enslaved. She felt a tremor sometimes—the unspoken question tormented her, ‘What if this passion be all wrong, instead of all right? What if it paralyse, instead of expanding, my nature? If it so absorb me that I can forget others—forget, for one moment, my highest aims—then it is surely wrong. A love that is pure and true ought to make one more unselfish, ought to make one love better and more largely and liberally everything and every person about one. Is it so with me?’ Some such thought as this was agitating her mind this afternoon. She was striving to be reasonable, to keep her head steady in the midst of her heart’s wild storm—piteously striving, while the tyrant sentiment shook her with ruthless hand; while between her and the wholesome outside nature, came the beautiful face which now haunted her thoughts so doggedly, and beyond the twitter of the hopping birds about and above her, sounded that voice to which every fibre had thrilled, every sense had responded, last night. A lark suddenly rose, fluttering aloft, pouring out a full-hearted song—such a flood of trilling ecstasy as must have nearly burst his little throat. She heard it, and it troubled her; it interrupted the memory of that other song, in such weird contrast to this one, which Jerome had sung: ‘In dreams I saw thy face, And saw the night Filling thy heart’s drear space, And saw the snake That gnaws that heart apace. I saw, my love, Thy great and sore distress; I murmur not.’ ‘What am I thinking of?’ she almost uttered, starting quickly. ‘I am nervous. I must be. Why didn’t I go to those Lehnberg girls and be amiable to them, instead of standing aloof and helping Carla to be ill-natured, for I know she dislikes them. I should have felt better now, had I done so. I am degraded by indulging in this folly, and I——’