We climbed the hill side by side; it did not seem at all strange at the time. When we reached the summit, the sun was setting in fullest glory, and we were silent. Suddenly he cried: "Let us be fire-worshippers! There is more of God in that great light than in all the gospels of mankind." "What a queer, comforting thing," said I, "to hear from a stranger in a wood." It struck me afterwards that perhaps I, too, had said a queer thing; but we seemed to understand each other. Presently we sat down again, and he talked to me about the Parsees; he appears to know a great deal about them. We narrowly escaped a second run downhill; again the wind seized my hat, but he nimbly caught it on the wing. "Why don't you do as I do?" he asked, passing his fingers through his hair. "It's a great mistake to wear a hat, especially if one has a turn for trespassing." "Who tells you," laughed I then, "that I am trespassing? For aught you know, this may be my own ground." The young man looked at me curiously. "Are you, then, Emilia Fletcher?" he cried. I nodded assent; whereupon he held out his hand and jerked his head forward; it was evidently an attempt at courtesy. I took the hand and laughed outright: he looked so funny with his bright eyes twinkling beneath the tangled forelock. "I have heard of you," he said, "and I am glad to meet you. The other day I asked to whom the land belonged, and was told that you were half Italian and rather eccentric. You seem to be a human being. I am glad to have met you. My name is Gabriel Norton." Here the big bell rang out from the house, summoning me to tea,--it had rung once already. So the apparition and I parted company. I wonder if he has caught cold; I am sure that I have; I have been sneezing all the evening. It may be very pleasant and romantic to sit on the moss with a wood-sprite after a shower, but perhaps it is not very wise. I must go and say good night downstairs. I left Miss Seymour reading sentimental ballads on pauper childhood to the old ladies; it must now be close upon their bed-time. Good night, beloved. Your EMILIA. P.S. I forgot to say that he has one really fine point: his hands are quite beautiful. I keep on wondering what you would think of him. O dio! how good it was to laugh again. LETTER XIII. GRAYSMILL, October 18th. Very dear, I hope this letter will reach Vienna before you do, and welcome you there. The words we write in one mood are read when another has taken its place; perhaps you are as merry as a bird in spring by this time,--perhaps not. My poor little dear. I know myself what it is to sink into a bottomless pit of senseless misery, but I must tell you that it nearly always happens when I am idle.