Mary passed out into the peaceful sunshine of the garden. Lady Dashwood looked imploringly at Ralph, who smiled in reply. From the bottom of his heart, he was feeling for the girl, but he did not falter in his purpose. It was very brave of Mary, but at the same time very pathetic. Ralph stole after the lonely figure; he found her standing by the old sundial in the garden. Her fingers were tracing idly over the quaint inscription on the stone. Ralph could see that her eyes were filled with tears. "Is there anything I can do to help you?" he asked. "I'm afraid not," Mary whispered. "And you are the only friend I have, besides Lady Dashwood. I have not the art of making friends: I never had sympathy with the pastimes and pleasures of the ordinary girl of my class; I did not feel lonely here, because it was so lovely a place. Dashwood Hall was always sufficient for me. And now when I come to leave it, it breaks my heart to go. You will laugh at me perhaps, but I have a strange feeling as if I had the whole world to myself and that there was nobody else in it. It is as if everybody had turned away from me. There was even something that hurt me today in the way that Mr. Mayfield let me know that I was free as far as he was concerned. I dread the thought of living by myself in London, the idea makes me tremble. I, who have been so cold and proud, will have to approach people and ask favours at their hands. I hope you understand me; it is dreadful when nobody understands me." Ralph made no reply for a moment, he was afraid to trust his own voice. "You are a very woman," he said at length. "With your pride and your coldness there are the same impulses and passions common to yourself and the meanest of us. As to this pride of yours, I regard it as a hateful thing. What is a Dashwood living on a fortune that none of you have ever earned, compared with the man or woman who has risen superior to circumstances and made an honoured name in the world? The girl who goes out and gets her own living, or to support a widowed mother, is far superior to you. But I say these things loving you with my whole heart and soul and being, and hope that some day I shall call you my wife. I want to see all that harshness and coldness of yours cast to the wind, I want to see your face sweet in sympathy with poor humanity. But you are not going the lonely way as you seem to imagine. I am going to look after you; I will not be far away. For the present my work is finished here, and there are powerful calls that take me to London also in a day or two. You will let me see you, Mary; you will let me bring you and my young artist friend together?"