Be yours the things ye would: be ours The things that are more excellent.” William Watson. |Come over to this side of the carriage,” said Bruce Wylie as they took their places in the train at Territet, “you will get the best of the views this side.” Evereld had become quite used to his kindly little arrangements for her comfort, she felt sure in her own mind that any good-natured man would have done as much for a girl on her first Swiss tour, and she smiled to herself at that ridiculous report which Mr. Lewisham had quoted to her. After all, though, was it not very likely that she herself had misjudged other people in exactly the same way? She was always making little romances in her mind about the people they met in the hotels, and they generally proved to be wrong when closer acquaintance revealed the truth. She felt perfectly happy that September morning as they journeyed along the lovely lake, past the red roofed Castle of Chillon, past the white peaks of the Dent du Midi to St. Maurice, and then on once more through the somewhat trying heat of the Rhone Valley to Vernayaz. “I shall be quite independent of you,” said Janet, “and shall spend my day sketching. We will all meet here again in time for the train.” “Oh we must come and see you settled,” said Bruce Wylie, “besides Evereld ought to see the waterfall nearer than from the train. We have our whole day before us, there is no hurry.” In the end these three walked off together in the direction of the Pissevache, while the two lovers went in the opposite direction, promising to order luncheon at the hotel. Evereld seemed more talkative than usual, but when, having duly inspected the waterfall, he tried hard to draw her into the region of sentiment, she seemed more provokingly matter of fact than ever. “It’s very sad to think we have only one more excursion before we go home,” he remarked, “how detestable England will seem after this holiday.” “Do you think so,” said Evereld, “why I am longing to get back to England. Lovely as this place is, it seems so dreadfully far away.” “Far away from what?” said Bruce Wylie. “Well, from one’s friends and belongings,” said Evereld. Bruce Wylie could only pretend to be deeply offended. “You say that to me,” he said tragically, “one of your oldest friends!” She laughed merrily. “It was certainly a case of what _Punch_ would call ‘Things one would rather have expressed differently.’ But though the tour has been a great treat I believe I should always begin to be homesick for England at the end of six weeks.” “Oh if it is only an abstraction like England I will not be jealous, it isn’t worth while,” said her companion with a laugh. And Evereld blushed a little, knowing that it was not England in the abstract, but nearness to Ralph that she longed for.