head, and talked sadly of 'poor Annabel,' who was buried alive. She walked down to a familiar spot by the lake, where a rustic bench was set under shadowing leafage; in front two skiffs were moored on the strand. The sky was billowy with slow-travelling shapes of whiteness; a warm wind broke murmuring wavelets along the pebbly margin. The opposite slopes glassed themselves in the deep dark water--Swarth Fell, Hallin Fell, Place Fell--one after the other; above the southern bend of the lake rose noble summits, softly touched with mist which the sun was fast dispelling. The sweetness of summer was in the air. So quiet was it that every wing-rustle in the brake, every whisper of leaf to leaf, made a distinct small voice; a sheep-dog barking over at Howtown seemed close at hand. This morning Annabel had no inclination to read, yet her face was not expressive of the calm reflection which was her habit. She opened the book upon her lap and glanced down a page or two, but without interest. At length external things were wholly lost to her, and she gazed across the water with continuance of solemn vision. Her face was almost austere in this mood which had come upon her. Someone was descending the path which led from the high road; it was a step too heavy for Paula's, too rapid to be Mr. Newthorpe's. Annabel turned her head and saw a young man, perhaps of seven-and-twenty, dressed in a light walking-suit, with a small wallet hanging from his shoulder and a stick in his hand. At sight of her he took off his cap and approached her bare-headed. 'I saw from a quarter of a mile away,' he said, 'that someone was sitting here, and I came down on the chance that it might be you.' She rose with a very slight show of surprise, and returned his greeting with calm friendliness. 'We were speaking of you at breakfast. My cousin couldn't tell us for certain whether you were in England, though she knew you were in London a month ago.' 'Miss Tyrrell is with you?' he asked, as if it were very unexpected. 'But didn't you know? She has been ill, and they sent her to us to recruit.' 'Ah! I have been in Jersey for a month; I have heard nothing.' 'You were able to tear yourself from London in mid-season?' 'But when was I a devotee of the Season, Miss Newthorpe?' 'We hear you progress in civilisation.' 'Well, I hope so. I've had a month of steady reading, and feel better for it. I took a big chest of books to Jersey. But I hope Miss Tyrrell is better?' 'Quite herself again. Shall we walk up to the house?' 'I have broken in upon your reading.' She exhibited the volume; it was Buskin's 'Sesame and Lilies.' 'Ah! you got it; and like it?' 'On the whole.' 'That is disappointing.' Annabel was silent, then spoke of another matter as they walked up from the lake.