Ian fell a thinking how to wake in her a feeling of what he meant. He had perceived that one of the first elements in human education is the sense of space--of which sense, probably, the star-dwelt heaven is the first awakener. He believed that without the heavens we could not have learned the largeness in things below them, could not, for instance, have felt the mystery of the high-ascending gothic roof--for without the greater we cannot interpret the less; and he thought that to have the sense of largeness developed might be to come a little nearer to the truth of things, to the recognition of spiritual relations. "Did you ever see anything very big?" he asked. "I suppose London is as big as most things!" she answered, after a moment. "Did you ever see London?" he asked. "We generally live there half the year." "Pardon me; I did not ask if you had ever been to London," said Ian; "I asked if you had ever seen London." "I know the west end pretty well." "Did it ever strike you as very large?" "Perhaps not; but the west end is only a part of London." "Did you ever see London from the top of St. Paul's?" "No." "Did you ever see it from the top of Hampstead heath?" "I have been there several times, but I don't remember seeing London from it. We don't go to London for the sights." "Then you have not seen London!" Mercy was annoyed. Ian did not notice that she was, else perhaps he would not have gone on--which would have been a pity, for a little annoyance would do her no harm. At the same time the mood was not favourable to receiving any impression from the region of the things that are not seen. A pause followed. "It is so delightful," said Ian at length, "to come out of the motion and the heat and the narrowness into the still, cold greatness!" "You seemed to be enjoying yourself pretty well notwithstanding, Captain Macruadh!" "What made you think so?" he asked, turning to her with a smile. "You were so merry--not with me--you think me only a stupid lowland girl; but the other young persons you danced with, laughed very much at things you said to them." "You are right; I did enjoy myself. As often as one comes near a simple human heart, one's own heart finds a little room." Ere she knew, Mercy had said-- "And you didn't find any room with me?" With the sound of her words her face grew hot, as with a furnace-blast, even in the frosty night-air. She would have covered what she had said, but only stammered. Ian turned, and looking at her, said with a gentle gravity-- "You must not be offended with me! I must answer you truly.--You do not give me room: have you not just told me you never longed for any yourself?" "One ought to be independent!" said Mercy, a little nettled. "Are you sure of that? What is called independence may really be want of sympathy. That would indicate a kind of loneliness anything but good."