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 THE COLLECTION OF 
 
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 ENDOWED BY 
 
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APPLETONS' NEW HANDY-VOLUME SERIES, 
 
 SUMMEE IDYL. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHRISTIAN REID, 
 
 ATJTHOE OF "VALEEIB ATLMER,". "BONNY KATK," ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 D. APPLETOJSr AND COMPANY, 
 
 549 AND 551 BROAD WAY. 
 
 1878. 
 
COPYBIGHT BY 
 
 T>. APPLETON & COMPANY, 
 
 1878. 
 
-^ 3 S S. I 
 
 OOKTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTEB PAGE 
 
 I. "I, TOO, Shepherds, in Arcadia dwelt" . 5 
 
 n. "Beyond the Magic Valley lay" . . 18 
 
 III. "My Love she's but a Lassie yet" . . 31 
 
 IV. "In Nature's Eyes to look and to rejoice" 43 
 V. " Linger, Gentle Time ! " . . . 54 
 
 VI. "The Mood op Woman who can tell?" . 66 
 
 VII, " Love was in the Next Degree " . . 76 
 
 VIII. "Sweet is True Love, though given in vain, 
 
 IN vain" . . . . .91 
 
 IX. "Love the Gift is love the Debt" . 98 
 
 X. " Some there be that Shadows kiss " . . 106 
 
 XL "Westward ho!" . . . .116 
 
 XII. " How should I greet thee ? " . . . 127 
 
 Xni. "If she be not fair to me" . . 142 
 
 XIV. "Under the Greenwood Bough" . . 156 
 
 XV. "Oh, my Cousin, shallow-hearted" . 167 
 
 XVI. "0 Last Regret, Regret can die" . .184 
 
 XVII. " Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well ! " . 198 
 
 
 
A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "l, TOO, SHEPHERDS, IN AECADIA DWELT." 
 
 " One thing is certain," says Geoffrey Charl- 
 ton, laying down his pen as he speaks ; " there 
 must be an end of this. If not, there will be an 
 end of me ; and I am not ready to be taken off 
 by brain-fever quite yet. Foster told me the 
 other day that I must leave the city, and I begin 
 to think that he is right. The question is, where 
 to go ? " 
 
 He leans back in his chair, clasps his hands 
 behind his head, and reflects. Scores of flies buzz 
 and drone around him, scores more thirstily di-ink 
 the ink from the much-erased and blotted manu- 
 script on the table, while a few commit suicide in 
 the open inkstand. Against the closed window- 
 blinds the sun of July is beating hotly ; from the 
 paved street outside a white glare rises ; across the 
 way a hand-organ is listlessly giving forth the 
 
6 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 strains of "Mulligan Guards," and overhead a 
 j^ainter of Bohemian tendencies is entertaining a 
 company of friends, on whom the heat of the day 
 seems to exercise no sedative effect. 
 
 " This is decidedly not one of those quiet re- 
 treats which genius loves ; neither is it a cool 
 one," continues Mr. Charlton, presently. " I must 
 change my quarters, that is evident. But where 
 shall I go ? A summer * resort ' would simj^ly 
 make an end of me by slow boredom instead of 
 quick work. What I want is novelty of scene, 
 health of body, and refreshment of mind. Shall 
 I go out to the Plains and join an exploring par- 
 ty ? Shall I go to Nova Scotia, and dream away 
 a month or two ? Shall I — confound it ! there is 
 somebody at the door. Come in ! " 
 
 The door opens, and a young man enters — a 
 remarkably handsome young fellow, whose face 
 is flushed with heat, and whose brown hair clings 
 to his brow in short, damp curls when he takes off 
 his hat. 
 
 " What, Sunderland, is it you ? " says Charl- 
 ton. " I have not seen you for so long that I 
 thought you were out of town." 
 
 "Exactly what I thought of you," answers 
 Sunderland, subsiding into a chair, "until I met 
 Renshaw this morning, and he told me you were 
 still here. Fearfully hot, isn't it? By Jove, 
 Charlton, you'll excuse me for saying that you 
 look awfully overworked." 
 
"I, TOO, SHEPHERDS, IX ARCADIA DWELT." 7 
 
 " I feel awfully overworked," returns Charlton, 
 gi-imlj. " Night-work on the Telegraph, and day- 
 work for two or three journals and magazines, is 
 calculated to tell on a man unless he has the mus- 
 cles of a horse and the nerves of an elephant. I 
 have neither, and it has told on me. It has come 
 to this — that I must go away and rest, or break 
 down, and be sent to a hospital with brain-fever." 
 
 "I should go away and rest," says Sunder- 
 land. " It is the pleasanter alternative of the two. 
 Where shall you go ? " 
 
 "That is the question I was asking myself 
 when you came in, and I have received no satis- 
 factory reply. I want to go to some quiet place 
 and work on my novel. You are not aware, per- 
 haps, that I have a novel in hand destined to 
 make me famous." 
 
 " That is your idea of resting, is it ? " says 
 Sunderland. "You literary men are certainly 
 odd ! My dear fellow, have you not learned yet 
 that all work and no play makes Jack a very dull 
 boy? Take my advice — put your novel aside, 
 and come with me. I leave the city to-morrow." 
 
 "Whither bound?" 
 
 " To Canada, Niagara, and the lakes." 
 
 "What! alone?" 
 
 "No — with the Prestons. They propose to 
 make an extensive summer tour, going south fi- 
 nally by the Mississippi River." 
 
 " And so you are still in the chains of the fair 
 
8 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 Gertrude," says Charlton. " I fancied that affair 
 would have become antediluvian by this time. 
 Wasn't it two months ago that you made her 
 acquaintance ? Xo, you can't tempt me by any 
 such programme as that. 1 pine for Arcadia, and 
 Arcadia does not exist in any region where fash- 
 ionable hotels and summer tourists abound." 
 
 " I wonder if I don't know a place that would 
 suit you ? " says Sunderland, with the air of one 
 whom a bright thought has struck. " I certainly 
 know — not exactly a bank where the wild thyme 
 grows, but a country where the whistle of a loco- 
 motive has never sounded, where fashionable hotels 
 are unknown, and summer tourists rarely wander." 
 
 " Are you in earnest ? " asks Charlton. " Let 
 me tell you this is no jesting matter ! If Arcadia 
 is to be found, I mean to find it. Once or twice 
 in a man's life, I suppose, a rural longing seizes 
 liim. Such a longing has seized me just now, and 
 if you are in earnest " 
 
 " Of course I am in earnest," says Sunderland. 
 " What else should I be ? You remember having 
 heard me speak of my cousin Flora Tyrrell, I am 
 sure ? " 
 
 " Remember ! I should think I did ! " re- 
 sponds Charlton, with a sigh which is eloquent of 
 past boredom. " But she has been out of date for 
 several months ; you don't mean to speak of her 
 again, do you ? And what possible connection 
 has she with Arcadia ? " 
 
"I, TOO, SHEPHERDS, IN ARCADIA DWELT." 9 
 
 " Only the slight connection of living in it," 
 says Sunderland, a little stiffly. " You have heard 
 of Western North Carolina, haven't you ? But I 
 don't suppose you have ever been there." 
 
 "You suppose quite rightly," says Charlton. 
 " I have never been there, but I am aware that 
 some adventurous travelers have declared the 
 country to be picturesque and worth visiting. Is 
 that your Arcadia ? " 
 
 "That is my Arcadia. I ought to know it 
 well, for every simimer of my boyhood was spent 
 there ; and I inclined to think that a man like 
 you, who cares nothing for fashionable gayety, 
 might like it exceedingly. Frankly, it bores 7ne 
 terribly ; but you are different." 
 
 " I confess I am more likely to be bored by 
 men than by Nature," says Charlton, quietly. 
 " Will you have a cigar ? Now " — after he has 
 lighted his own — " tell me about this place. Where 
 is it ? and how is it reached ? And what has your 
 cousin to do with it ? " 
 
 " I have told you that she lives there," an- 
 swers Sunderland. " Poor little Flora ! I used 
 to be very fond of her ; but, of course, such fan- 
 cies fade away as a man grows older. You laugh 
 at me, but no doubt you have a goodly number 
 of them yourself, Charlton." 
 
 "Perhaps so," says Charlton, in a non-com- 
 mittal tone. " But to return to Arcadia — " 
 
 " I wish to heaven you loould go there ! " in- 
 
10 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 terrupts Sunderland, with sudden energy. "You 
 might do me a very great favor if you had a 
 mind that way." 
 
 " I am not particularly obliging as a general 
 rule," says Charlton ; " but, if I go, I should not 
 mind doing you a favor — provided it entails no 
 trouble. What is it ? " 
 
 Sunderland does not answer for a minute. He 
 sits and gazes steadily at the floor, his cigar, from 
 which faint wreaths of blue smoke curl, held be- 
 tween the fingers of his right hand, while with 
 his left he caresses gently one of the silken brown 
 whiskers, of which he is very proud. Charlton 
 leans his head against the back of his chair and 
 watches him with a half -amused smile. He likes 
 the young man despite his vanity, his egotism, 
 his volatile lightness — likes him because he is al- 
 ways an agreeable companion, and thoroughly a 
 prince of good-fellows, open-handed, generous- 
 hearted, sunny-tempered. It is no new thing for 
 people to like Sunderland. They have never done 
 anything else since he was born ; and Sunderland 
 himself is well accustomed to win the tenderness of 
 women and the friendship of men. He is also well 
 accustomed to making use of his fellow-creatures 
 whenever it will serve his convenience to do so ; 
 and, since it is likely that Charlton may serve his 
 convenience now, he unhesitatingly prej^ares to 
 make use of him. Charlton on his part, fully 
 aware of this, placidly waits to hear what favor 
 
"I, TOO, SHEPHERDS, IX ARCADIA DWELT." H 
 
 the other has to request. He is not long kept in 
 suspense. Sunderland suddenly looks up and 
 speaks a little diffidently : 
 
 " You won't mind if I tell you something of 
 a story first. It shall not be long. You have 
 heard me talk of my cousin, and perhaps you 
 don't need for me to tell you that when I left 
 Carolina there was a boy and girl love-affair be- 
 tween us. Flora was very pretty, and we had, in 
 a great measure, grown up together. I was ex- 
 ceedingly attached to her, and of course she liked 
 me." Here Prince Charming pauses, strokes his 
 whisker still more gently, and sighs. " However, 
 I don't think either of us was very hard hit," he 
 goes on in the tone of one administering consola- 
 tion to himself. " I soon fell in love with some- 
 body else, and very likely Flora did the same ; 
 but still I don't know that she did, and so I am 
 placed in rather an awkward position." 
 
 *' AYhy so ? " asks Charlton, rolling out a cloud 
 of smoke, and watching it curl fantastically about 
 his head. 
 
 " I should think you could tell why so," replied 
 Sunderland. " A man who isn't a puppy doesn't 
 like to speak of such matters. You'll think me 
 full of conceit, but I put the question to yourself. 
 Suppose you had taken a fancy to a cousin whom 
 you were always with, and talked nonsense, and 
 then gone away and fallen in love in earnest, 
 should you like to ask the woman you love to 
 
12 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 marry you, Trhile you don't know liow much your 
 cousin still tliinks you bound to her, or — or how 
 much she may care for you ? " 
 
 *' That is the state of the case, is it ? " says Charl- 
 ' ton, trying heroically to repress a smile. " You 
 want to ask Miss Preston to marry you, and you 
 are afraid the blow may break your cousin's heart. 
 Youi' consideration, my dear boy, does you credit ; 
 but, since I am your father confessor for the time 
 being, let us hear how much your honor is in- 
 volved. Hearts and darts and things of that kind 
 can be trifled with, you know ; but a man's hon- 
 or » 
 
 "Must stand firm though the heavens fall," 
 says Sunderland, with a slightly uneasy laugh. 
 " Yes, I know that. AVell, honestly, I don't think 
 my honor is involved. Many men would not give 
 the matter a thought. There is no engagement 
 between Flora and myself ; but I would have 
 said at the time that we understood each other. 
 I am afraid now that we did understand each 
 other a great deal too well. How much she has 
 changed in the interval since I saw her last, two 
 years ago, I cannot tell. She ^vrites occasionally, 
 but her letters tell nothing ; they are much more 
 full of the children, the horses, and the neighbors, 
 than of herself. She always was proud and shy, 
 however, so that does not count." 
 
 " TThat does count, then ? " asks Charlton. 
 " The ^presumption is strong, I should think, that 
 
"I, TOO, SHEPHERDS, IX ARCADIA DWELT." 13 
 
 she is a reasonable young lady, who like yourself 
 has put youthful folly aside." 
 
 " I wish I were sure of that," says Sunderland, 
 sincerely ; " but the trouble is that I am not at 
 all sure. Flora never was exactly like other girls. 
 I thouo:ht I would 0*0 this summer and see for 
 myself how matters stand ; but the Prestons have 
 asked me to join them, and — and I can't well re- 
 fuse. But I am still fond of Flora — as fond as ever, 
 only in a different way — and I would rather cut 
 my throat than seem to act badly toward her." 
 
 " A very good frame of mind," says Charlton, 
 approvingly. He looks at the young man with a 
 smile which this time is neither satirical nor 
 amused — only full of pleasant cordiality. " You 
 are in a dilemma, certainly," he adds. " How do 
 you mean to escape from it ? " 
 
 " I mean to ask you to give me a helping hand," 
 answers Sunderland, emboldened by his tone. 
 " You'll not refuse, I am sure, Charlton ! If you 
 will only set my mind at rest — and you can do so 
 without much trouble to yourself — I shall be the 
 m.ost grateful beggar in existence ! " 
 
 " You are already the most impudent ! " says 
 Charlton. " What have I to do with your affaii's, 
 amatory or otherwise ? — and how do you propose 
 that I should set your mind at rest ? " 
 
 "Haven't you decided to go to Carolina?" 
 asks the other. " If you don't find Arcadia be- 
 yond the Blue Ridge, let me tell you that you 
 
14 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 need never look for it. And Flora lives there. 
 I'll give you a letter of introduction to my uncle ; 
 he has a charming country -place on the French 
 Broad in Transylvania. Such a country, Charl- 
 ton ! you can't imagine anything more beautiful ! 
 Then you can cultivate Flora's acquaintance, and 
 let me know if she has any fancy for me yet." 
 
 " I admire your unparalleled coolness ! " says 
 Charlton. " Does it ever occur to you that any 
 man or woman was put into the world for other 
 purposes than to serve your convenience ? I nev- 
 er heard such a proposal in my life ! That I 
 should start out and explore the unknown wilds 
 of North Carolina in order to discover whether or 
 not your cousin is still in love with you ! " 
 
 " Now, that is all nonsense ! " says Sunderland, 
 rather aggrieved. *' I did not make any such pro- 
 posal. You said — or if you didn't say, you im- 
 plied — that you were going to Carolina, and I 
 merely remarked that in that case you could do 
 me a favor. You asked me what the favor was, 
 and I have told you." 
 
 " You have indeed ! But there are one or two 
 small facts to be taken into consideration with re- 
 gard to it. In the first place, I have not by any 
 means decided to go to Carolina. In the second 
 place, if I do go, I believe the transmontane part 
 of the State is of rather large area, and it may 
 readily come to pass that I do not meet your 
 cousin at all. In the third place, am Za fit per- 
 
"I, TOO, SHEPHERDS, IN" ARCADIA DWELT." 15 
 
 son for the delicate task of sounding a lady's af- 
 fections ? " 
 
 "I consider you a very fit person," answers 
 Sunderland. "Don't you wi'ite of women as if 
 you had turned their heads and their hearts inside 
 out and knew all about them ? You must have 
 studied the sex exhaustively at some time or 
 other, to have reached such a state of certainty. 
 Now, why not apply all this knowledge to the 
 case in point ? " 
 
 "Because it is not absolute knowledge at all," 
 replies Charlton. " It is partly intuition, partly 
 guess-work, and partly one of the tricks of the 
 trade. I know women in the abstract, but wom- 
 en in the concrete puzzle me as they puzzle every 
 other son of Adam. I might put your cousin in 
 a novel and analyze her to my own and the reader's 
 satisfaction, but in real life the real woman would, 
 ten to one, be an enigma to me." 
 
 " I don't think Flora would be an enigma to a 
 man of your knowledge of the world," remarks 
 Sunderland insinuatingly. "This is not one of 
 the women who tear one to pieces with whims 
 and vagaries. She was a frank, straightforward, 
 proud little soul always." 
 
 "And is it probable that a woman like that 
 would let a stranger read her heart as if it were 
 a book ? " 
 
 " Let you — no ! But she is a girl who is sim- 
 plicity itself, who has never been in society, and 
 
16 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 whose knowledge of the world is bounded by her 
 native hills. If you cannot read her as if she were 
 a book, you might as well burn your novel, my 
 dear fellow." 
 
 " You think my power of observation would 
 not be worth much in such a case ? " says Charlton 
 with a quiet smile. "You may be right — who 
 knows ? I have had doubts myself on that subject 
 sometimes ! Perhaps," he adds meditatively, " this 
 suggestion of yours may prove a crucial test of my 
 ability. After all, if it were not for the trouble of 
 the thing, I might be tempted to take it into con- 
 sideration — or if this cousin of yours lived any- 
 where short of the Mountains of the Moon." 
 
 " Even the Mountains of the Moon are near at 
 hand in this age," says Sunderland. " The rail- 
 road will take you to the foot of the Blue Ridge. 
 After that, you will find yourself in a region where 
 the customs and traditions of fifty years ago still 
 linger ; where the people are hospitable, and the 
 climate is delightful ; where blue mountains and 
 flowery valleys — " 
 
 " That will do ! " says Charlton. " You are 
 becoming flowery, as well as the valleys. I'll take 
 it for granted that the country is very fine. Tell 
 me where this uncle of yours lives, and if there is 
 any comfortable farm-house in his neighborhood 
 where I could be lodged decently, and fed on the 
 milk and honey of the land." 
 
 " Flora will be able to tell you all about that," 
 
"I, TOO, SHEPHERDS, IN ARCADIA DWELT." 17 
 
 replies Sunderland, in an off-hand way. "The 
 best thing for you to do will be to go straight to 
 my uncle's house. He is the most hosj^itable old 
 fellow in the world, and will make you heartily 
 welcome. I'll write and let him know that you 
 are coming — then you can look about and decide 
 at your leisure what to do." 
 
 "That may be according to your Carolina 
 fashion, but I can't say that I particularly like the 
 idea of presenting myself as a guest at the door 
 of a man I do not know." 
 
 " But you will know him in ten minutes — and 
 Flora, and George, and Minnie, and Oscar, and all 
 the rest of them. By Jove ! if it were not for 
 Gertrude, I should like to be going with you ! 
 But no doubt I should be bored in a week." 
 
 "ISTo doubt whatever, I am inclined to think. 
 See ! here is a map — suppose you show me exactly 
 where this El Dorado is situated ? " 
 
 " With pleasm-e ! " answers Sunderland, start- 
 ing up. He crosses the floor and bends over the 
 map which the other opens. " Here is the route 
 you must follow," he says. 
 
18 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 "beyo:n^d the magic valley lay." 
 
 It is doubtful if tliere is a lovelier spot, in all 
 that lovely land knoTVTi as Western North Caro- 
 lina, than the valley of the French Broad in 
 Transylvania. Those who have only seen the 
 river as it makes its impetuous way through the 
 mountains below Asheville, can scarcely conceive 
 the gentleness of its crystal cui'rent, or the pastoral 
 beauty of the scenery surrounding it, in this fair 
 valley overshadowed by the cloud-capped heights 
 of the Blue Ridge and the Balsam Mountains. 
 The traveler passing along the turnpikes finds 
 himself in a very Ai'cadia of fertile loveliness. 
 Ai-ound on every side are great breadths of rus- 
 tling cornfields, and sweeps of green meadow-land, 
 bordered by hedges over which the sweetbrier and 
 wild clematis run, and under which starry flowers 
 shine. With many a winding curve, the river 
 flows swiftly by, beneath drooping trees and tan- 
 gled vines. Here and there on its banks green 
 knolls swell, on almost all of which houses stand. 
 Beyond the level farms wooded hillsides rise, while 
 again beyond these are the mountain-peaks — so 
 blue, so soft, so divinely fair — which make the 
 background for every picture. 
 
 The sun is setting behind these peaks, and 
 
"BEYOXD THE MAGIC VALLEY LAY." 19 
 
 striking with his last rays of gold the tallest tree- 
 tops, when over a road which leads through an 
 immense field of corn — a road so narrow that two 
 vehicles could not pass abreast without trampling 
 down the green stalks which border it — Flora 
 Tyrrell rides, attended by her brother George. 
 A light breeze comes to them, stirring the blades 
 of corn, and blowing back the light locks of Flora's 
 hair. Seen thus, in her closely-fitting habit and 
 jockey cap, she looks very small, very slight, very 
 young. Yery pretty, too ; for her delicate features 
 are clearly defined, her complexion has a charming 
 bloom which comes and goes, her brown hair is 
 full of golden gleams, and her eyes are like bits 
 of heaven in their blueness. She does not look a 
 day over eighteen, but she is in truth twenty, and, 
 despite her childlike appearance, has been for 
 four years the mistress of her father's house. 
 George — next in age to herself — is a tall, broad- 
 shouldered boy of seventeen, with the same frank 
 blue eyes shining out of a very tanned and freckled 
 face, hair cut so short that he looks like a convict 
 or prize-fighter, and some downy, incipient signs 
 of a mustache, which fill him with joy and ex- 
 ultation. 
 
 These young people have been to pay a visit, 
 and are now returning home — riding leisurely and 
 discussing many topics, domestic and social. 
 
 " There's a fishing-party going up to the Bal- 
 sam next week," says George, "and Tom Fan- 
 
20 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 sliaw and I mean to join it. Several gentlemen 
 who are staying in Brevard are going, and two or 
 three more are coming from Caesar's Head. We'll 
 carry tents and be gone about a week." 
 
 " AVhat a pleasant thing it is to be a boy ! " 
 Flora says, with a sigh of envy. " I should like 
 to take a trip of that description, and I think I 
 shall try to make up a party for such an excursion 
 later in the season, when Harry comes." 
 
 " Perhaps Harry may be here to go with us 
 next week," says George. " How jolly that would 
 be ! We'd take the dogs, and have some hunting 
 as well as fishing. What a shot Harry was ! Do 
 you remember that sj^lendid buck he killed the 
 last deer-hunt we went on ? He always had such 
 good luck." 
 
 "Luck and skill are different things, George, 
 though they are often confounded," says Flora, 
 with an aii* of pride — which is for Harry's achieve- 
 ments. 
 
 " That is all very fine," returns George, " but 
 don't you call it luck when the dogs run the deer 
 right past a man's stand ? Other people besides 
 Harry can shoot, but sometimes they wait all day 
 without a chance to pull trigger." 
 
 " That is very true," says Flora. " I suppose 
 there is luck in the matter. But then, when you 
 get the chance sometimes, do you not miss the 
 deer?" 
 
 "Well, yes — sometimes," admits George, a 
 
"BEYOND THE MAGIC VALLEY LAY." 21 
 
 little shamefacedly. " But Harry was always a 
 dead shot. When i^ he coming, Floy ? Wher- 
 ever I go, somebody asks me that. Everybody 
 likes Harry, you know." 
 
 " Yes, I know," says Flora, with a half smile 
 and a whole sigh. " He had such pleasant man- 
 ners, and was so considerate of others — that is 
 why people like him. I often beg of you, George, 
 to be more careful of your manners. But I do not 
 know Tv^hen he is coming. He has not said." 
 
 Talking in this manner, they ride through the 
 rich bottom-lands, and finally come to the river 
 again, which has made a sweeping bend around 
 them. A bridge spans it here, over which they 
 cross. On the farther side a hill rises, crowned 
 by a gabled house. A sloping lawn surrounds it 
 on all sides, bounded by the river in front, and by 
 a stone wall and line of beautiful white pines on 
 the side where the road runs. There is a gate at 
 the end of the bridge, showing that it is all private 
 domain. George opens this, and they pass into 
 the grounds. A carriage drive winds around the 
 hill, and brings them to the front of the building. 
 Here Flora dismounts — slipping lightly to the 
 ground without assistance — and gathering up her 
 habit enters the house, while George takes the 
 horses off to the stable. 
 
 A stranger could not forbear pausing on the 
 piazza to admire the magnificent prospect which 
 the situation commands — doubly magnificent just 
 
22 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 now from the glory of sunset whicli fills with 
 radiance the whole western sky ; but Flora knows 
 the prospect better than she knows her own face, 
 and, much as she admires it, she is at this moment 
 thinking of other things. As she enters the hall, 
 a voice from the right calls out, " Floy ! is that 
 you ? " 
 
 " Yes, papa," she answers, and, turning, enters 
 the sitting-room. It is a pleasant room at all 
 times, with that habitable look which the most 
 splendid apartment cannot afford to lack, and the 
 grace of arrangement which some women know 
 how to bestow ; but at present it is more than 
 merely pleasant — it is lit up with a stream of sun- 
 set light which transforms its homely charm into 
 enchantment for the time being. There are pict- 
 ures on the walls — engravings and photographs 
 chiefly, framed in pretty woodland devices, au- 
 tumn leaves and acorns, and fir-cones. The glow 
 touches and burnishes these ; touches also the 
 ivory keys of the open piano, and the hanging 
 basket with trailing sprays of ivy in the bay-win- 
 dow. The bald spot on the back of Colonel Tyr- 
 rell's head comes in for its share of the illu- 
 mination, and the open page of a letter he is 
 reading. 
 
 " So you have the mail, papa," says Flora, ad- 
 vancing. " Is there anything for me ? " 
 
 " I believe there is a magazine for you," her 
 father answers, glancing toward the budget on the 
 
"BEYOND THE MAGIC VALLEY LAY." 23 
 
 table ; " but there is no letter, if that is what you 
 mean." 
 
 Her face falls a little. " Not even from 
 Harry?" she inquires, in a tone which hopes 
 against certainty. 
 
 " Not even from Harry, for you ! " replies 
 Colonel Tyrrell. "But the scamp has conde- 
 scended to write to ine^ if that is any consolation 
 to you." 
 
 " Does he say that he is coming ? " she asks, 
 with a sparkle in her eyes. 
 
 " Not by any means," returns her father, dry- 
 ly. " Here is what he says. I was just reading 
 it when you came in, and I am not sure that I 
 have made it out correctly. He writes an abomi- 
 nable hand ! " 
 
 " I never find any difficulty in reading it," 
 says Flora. She comes forward as she speaks, 
 and, leaning on her father's shoulder, reads aloud 
 the letter in his hand. This is what Mr. Sunder- 
 land has to say : 
 
 " * My Dear Uncle : I am more sony than I 
 can tell you that there seems no prospect of my 
 being able to come to see you this summer. I 
 have been promising myself that pleasure all 
 spring, and wi'iting of it, as Flora knows; but life 
 is made up of disappointments, and I must take 
 my share like all the rest of mankind. When a 
 man puts his shoulder to the wheel, and goes to 
 
24 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 work in earnest, he should not look back, you 
 know. 
 
 " * In my present position I am not able to af- 
 ford a long holiday, though I shall probably leave 
 the city for a short time next week, accompany- 
 ing a party of very agreeable people — Flora will 
 remember that I have once or twice spoken of 
 the Prestons of New Orleans — to Canada and 
 Niagara.' " 
 
 " Ah," says Colonel Tyrrell, " that is putting 
 his shoulder to the wheel with a vengeance ! And 
 he cannot afford to come out to Transylvania ! 
 If that boy does not go to the dogs — What next, 
 Floy ? " 
 
 " * Though I cannot come to see you,' " Flora 
 reads on, " * I shall take the liberty of sending a 
 substitute, who will more than fill my place when 
 you know him. He is a particular friend of mine, 
 and, as such, I am sure you will give him a wel- 
 come. His name is Charlton, and he is a literary 
 man of note who promises (everybody says) to be 
 famous. He is well connected, well received, and 
 an uncommonly good fellow. Flora will like 
 him, and I commend him specially to her kind 
 ofiices. He has nearly worked himself to death, 
 and wants to recuperate. I have told him that 
 you will recommend him to some ideal farm- 
 house, where he can be as quiet as he pleases, and 
 scribble at a novel he has on hand. It would be 
 better for his health and spii'its, however, if you 
 
"BEYOND THE MAGIC VALLEY LAY." 25 
 
 kept him with you, and George took him out 
 deer-hunting among the mountains. 
 
 " ' Tell Flora, with my love, that I will write 
 to her soon. Kindest regards to all the house- 
 hold, and believe me, my dear uncle, 
 
 " * Your affectionate nephew,- 
 
 "*Henky Suxderland.' " 
 
 " Upon my word, that is cool ! " says Colonel 
 Tyrrell, with emphasis, as his daughter's voice 
 ceases. "What the deuce do you suppose the 
 scamp means? It is all very well to talk of a 
 particular friend, and being sure that we will re- 
 ceive him kindly ; but does he imagine that I 
 want to entertain any Bohemian scribbler that he 
 chooses to send here with a letter of introduc- 
 tion ? " 
 
 " Harry would not send any one whom you 
 would object to receive, papa, I am sure," says 
 Flora, quietly. However deep the disappoint- 
 ment caused by the letter, she bears it bravely 
 and makes no sign. " As for his talking about a 
 substitute — of course he knows that is nonsense. 
 No one could take his place." 
 
 " I am inclined to think that it is a place which 
 is better empty than filled," says Colonel Tyrrell, 
 in the tone of one thoroughly vexed. " If that 
 letter satisfies you, Floy " — he throws the letter 
 in question impatiently on the table — " you are 
 more foolish about Harry, and more blinded to 
 
26 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 his bad conduct, than I gave you credit for be- 
 
 ing." 
 
 " I hope I am not foolish," says Flora, about 
 whose eyes there is something suspiciously dewy, 
 " but I can't help thinking that you are unreason- 
 able, papa, and — and ' bad conduct ' is rather a 
 harsh term, don't you think ? If Harry does not 
 want to come to see us, should we wish him to do 
 so, or feel injured because he does not ? " 
 
 Her father glances at her keenly, but her face 
 being turned from the light, he cannot see the 
 moisture — it can scarcely be called tears — in her 
 eyes. He only sees the slender, black-robed fig- 
 ure on a golden background, and the soft masses 
 of bright hair falling on the delicate neck. 
 
 " You know your own affairs best," he says 
 then, " but I think Harry is acting very badly. 
 I am glad that you are able to take it so philo- 
 sophically. With regard to this man whom he 
 chooses to send — " 
 
 "He may prove very pleasant," says Flora, 
 eagerly, glad to turn from the subject of Harry's 
 misdemeanors. " At least he will be a novelty. 
 *A literary man of note — one who promises to be 
 famous.' The only thing is that I fear I shall 
 feel a little afraid of him ! " She ends with a 
 tremulous laugh. 
 
 " It is a very unwarranted step on Harry's 
 part, that of sending such a person here," says 
 Colonel Tyrrell, gathering up his newspapers and 
 
"BEYOXD THE MAGIC VALLEY LAY." 27 
 
 walking out on the piazza. He is, as Sunderland 
 averred, one of the most hospitable men in exist- 
 ence ; but he is chafed with his nephew, and this 
 is his way of showing it. If Harry had written 
 that Charlton was coming icitli him, he would not 
 have hesitated to kill his last fatted calf to do 
 them honor ; but now, feeling deeply annoyed at 
 the offending scapegrace, he turns this annoyance 
 against the unoffending stranger. 
 
 Flora stands quite still where she had been 
 left, in the middle of the floor — her graceful 
 head slightly bent, while the sunset glow falls ten- 
 derly over her. She does not touch Sunderland's 
 letter, which lies where her father disdainfully 
 threw it on the table, but her wistful glance seeks 
 it out, while her lips set themselves together. It 
 is only for a minute that she stands in this atti- 
 tude. Then she lifts her head with a start, and 
 turns toward the door. " You should not try to 
 read by a waning light, papa," she says to Colo- 
 nel Tyrrell on the piazza. " I will order lamps." 
 
 At supper there is an animated discussion 
 over the stranger who is soon to make his appear- 
 ance. George is scornful ; a man who writes 
 instead of hunting, and who probably knows lit- 
 tle or nothing of fishing, is in his eyes a fit sub- 
 ject for contempt. Minnie, who at fifteen is al- 
 ready taller than Flora, and full of immature co- 
 quetry, is frankly curious and speculative. 
 
 " Will he be pleasant, do you think, Floy ? " 
 
28 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 she asks. "And what has he written — do we 
 knoAV his books ? " 
 
 " The only books with which you ought to be 
 acquainted are those of which you know least — 
 that is, your school-books," says her father, se- 
 verely, before Flora can reply. " I shall certainly 
 send you to school in September ; for, if this 
 novel-reading goes on, your mind will entirely 
 run to seed." 
 
 Minnie looks extremely injured. " I don't 
 have many novels to read," she says. "I hope 
 Mr. Charlton will bring his with him, if he has 
 written any." 
 
 Oscar and Nellie are the only members of the 
 company who regard the coming event with indif- 
 ference. All the rest are more or less interested 
 in it, as trifling matters do interest people who 
 live a monotonous life. Even Mr. Martin, the 
 tutor — a pale young man, who laboriously leads 
 George, Minnie, and Oscar up the hill of learning, 
 and secretly adores Flora — wonders anxiously 
 what the " author " will be like. His acquaint- 
 ance with th^t class of men is very limited, and 
 they are therefore invested in his eyes with the 
 awe and mystery which always attaches to the 
 unkno'^Ti. 
 
 The household has time to subside from this 
 little flutter of expectation, and almost to forget 
 it, before the author in question arrives. A week 
 passes without any sign of him. "Perhaps he 
 
"BEYOND THE MAGIC VALLEY LAY." 29 
 
 does not mean to come at all," says Minnie, dis- 
 consolately. She is the only person who is anx- 
 ious for Mr. Charlton's appearance. Flora pri- 
 vately hopes that he may not come, and the boys 
 openly express the same desire. Colonel Tyr- 
 rell's first annoyance is over, but he still visits 
 his vexation with Harry on the head of Harry's 
 " particular friend," and wishes that the latter 
 would change his mind and turn his steps in 
 another direction. 
 
 It may be safely asserted, as a general rule, 
 that things usually happen in this life exactly 
 contrary to the manner in which we should like 
 to arrange them. If the Tyrrell family wished 
 to see Mr. Charlton, he would probably disap- 
 point them, as his friend Sunderland has already 
 done. Since they are almost a unit in not wish- 
 ing to see him, he appears when they are least 
 expecting him. 
 
 It is in the morning. The day is very warm 
 — at least as warm as days ever get to be in this 
 high, breezy region. Flora is in the pantry, 
 weighing out materials for a cake, with the short, 
 black cook assisting her, and Nellie standing by, 
 a fascinated spectator. On this scene enter 
 IMinnie, a French exercise in her hand, and live- 
 liest interest on her face. 
 
 " O Floy ! " she cries, " I think Mr. Charlton 
 is coming at last! I was working at this hate- 
 ful thing " — French exercise indicated — " on the 
 
30 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 piazza, when I heard the sound of wheels, and, 
 looking np, I saw a buggy coming round the 
 drive. I am sure it is from Brevard, and Mr. 
 Charlton must be in it. I saw a gentleman in a 
 round hat, and — there ! do you hear the door- 
 bell ? " 
 
 The door-bell is unmistakably to be heard, 
 and Flora puts down the scales, looking much 
 disconcerted. "It may not be Mr. Charlton," 
 she says, trying to reassure herself. "Minnie, 
 you should not startle one so ! It may be any- 
 body else. Papa is not at home, Hester," she 
 adds, as a housemaid hurries by the open door. 
 
 Breathless anxiety follows for a minute. 
 " How many eggs did you say. Miss Flora ? " 
 asks Caroline, but Flora does not heed the ques- 
 tion. She is wondermg if it is Mr. Charlton, 
 Harry's formidable friend. Nellie goes to the 
 door and peeps. Minnie forgets the dignity of 
 her fifteen years far enough to do likewise. " He 
 is coming in ! " she whispers, looking back at her 
 sister. A moment later doubt is over — Hester 
 appears with a letter and a card in her hand. The 
 letter is addressed, in Sunderland's well-known 
 writing, to Colonel Tyrrell ; the card bears the 
 name of Geoffrey Charlton. 
 
 "The gentleman asked for master," Hester 
 says, addressing her young mistress, " and when 
 I told him he wasn't at home, he told me to give 
 those to Miss Tyrrell." 
 
"MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET." 31 
 
 " I told you it was Mr. Charlton ! " says Min- 
 nie, triumphantly. 
 
 Flora says nothing ; she merely unfastens the 
 large domestic apron which covers the front of 
 her dress, and walks out of the pantry. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "my loye she's but a lassie yet." 
 
 It is not too much to say that Mr. Charlton 
 has been very pleasantly impressed by all that he 
 has seen so far of the home of the Tyrrells. The 
 beauty of the situation charms his eye at once — 
 especially since it bursts upon him with sudden 
 effect from his having approached the house in 
 the rear. " This is Arcadia indeed ! " he thinks, 
 when he sees the outspread beauty of the fertile 
 valley, the bright river winding through it, the 
 magical distance beyond — mountains overtopping 
 mountains until the farthest heights melt into 
 blue infinity — cloud-shadows shifting and falling 
 over the wooded hillsides, a clearness in all the 
 tints, a brilliancy in the atmosphere which is al- 
 together beyond the power of words to describe. 
 
 He is astonished as well as charmed. It is so 
 seldom in life that one's longing foi; an ideal 
 pleasure or happiness of any kind is gratified, 
 that one is justified in the incredulity with which 
 
32 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 one generally regards such a gratification wlien it 
 comes. Charlton has told himself more than once 
 since he began his journey that he is a fool — that 
 he will find nothing at his destination to repay 
 him for such an expedition. Now, all in a min- 
 ute, he feels that he is repaid. Already a subtile 
 sense of repose is borne to the weary brain and 
 overstrained nerves. Let his work be what it will 
 — and he would be the first to tell you that it is 
 poor enough — his is the true artistic temperament 
 which feels beauty of color, form, and tone, in 
 every fibre. This bright loveliness thrills him as 
 one keenly alive to music is thrilled by the first 
 exulting notes from a full orchestra, l^o matter 
 what the people whom he is going to meet may 
 be — and he has serious misgivings on that score — 
 he has found his place of rest, his sylvan city of 
 refuge. 
 
 It has been already said that Hester meets 
 him at the door and receives his card. She ushers 
 him across a hall, where branching antlers hang, 
 into the sitting-room. Left here, he glances round 
 critically, as he has already glanced at the outside 
 of the house. The uncarpeted floor is stained and 
 polished, and there are soft rugs before several of 
 the couches and deep easy-chairs. A large, old- 
 fashioned centre-table is piled with books and pa- 
 pers ; the piano is oj^en, and some exercises in 
 scales stand on the music-rack ; in the bay-win- 
 dow at the end of the apartment are a low chair 
 
"MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET." 33 
 
 and a woman's vork-basket. Other windows open 
 on the piazza outside, green shade droops beyond, 
 the murmur of the river comes in, and a gentle 
 breeze moves the curtains. Over the mantelpiece 
 is a fine engraving from one of Landseer's paint- 
 ings ; above the piano a head of St. Cecilia hangs. 
 Charlton observes these things. " For once luck 
 has befriended me ! " he says meditatively to 
 himself. 
 
 He is standing by one of the windows when 
 Flora enters. He hears the rustling sweep of her 
 dress as she crosses the floor, and turns. They 
 meet by the centre-table. 
 
 " I am glad to see you, Mr. Charlton," says the 
 young lady. " My cousin wrote of you some time 
 ago, and we have been expecting you ever since. 
 I am sorry papa is not at home just now ; but he 
 will return presently." 
 
 "You are exceedingly kind, Miss T^nrell," 
 says Charlton, bowing. First impressions are 
 strong, and he is not likely to forget the gracious 
 tact of this reception. To tell a man that he has 
 been expected is to put him at his ease at once ; 
 and this Flora, by the simple instinct of courtesy 
 and hospitality, has done. " Your cousin assured 
 me that I might venture to hope for a very pleas- 
 ant welcome if I presented myself in his name," 
 he goes on ; " and I see that he was not mistaken." 
 
 " A friend of Harry's could not fail to be wel- 
 come," says Flora. "Pray sit down. Do you 
 3 
 
34 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 come from Aslieville ? I fear you must have 
 found our roads very rough." 
 
 " On the contrary, much better than I ex- 
 pected," answers Charlton. He sits down as he 
 sj^eaks in the chair which she indicates, and, while 
 he praises the excellence of the roads, looks at 
 her, and takes in every detail of her personal ap- 
 pearance. He is struck at once by her youth and 
 her fair looks — though these looks fall far short 
 of what many people would consider beauty. He 
 notes the sweetness of the lips, the frank candor 
 of the eyes, the width of the white brow, the 
 graceful ai*ch of the well-poised head ; and he 
 knows what all these things, separately and collec- 
 tively, signify. He notes, also, the low, sweet 
 tone of her voice, and is surprised by the gentle 
 repose of her manners. 
 
 She, on her part, looks at him, and thinks that 
 Harry's friend is not so alarming after all. What 
 she sees is a spare, well-knit man of thirty-two or 
 three, with an intellectual but not handsome face, 
 out of which quiet hazel eyes meet her own. The 
 brows above are very dark and decided ; dark 
 also the crisp hair, which has perceptibly thinned 
 on the temples, and the heavy mustache and Eng- 
 lish whiskers. 
 
 They have been talking commonplaces while 
 they scrutinize each other in this manner, and 
 Flora sounds the first note of something different 
 when she says : " I hope you left Harry well ? 
 
"MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET." 35 
 
 He wrote that he was going to Canada with a 
 party of friends." 
 
 " When I saw him last he was very well in- 
 deed," replied Charlton, "but that was not for 
 several days before I left the city. His departure 
 antedated mine." 
 
 " We have not seen him since he left Carolina 
 two years ago," says Flora quietly, "and there- 
 fore we hoped that he would come this summer ; 
 but it seems we are not to be gratified. He ^vrites 
 that we are to take you as his substitute, Mr. 
 Charlton. How do you like the idea ? " 
 
 Charlton shrugs his shoulders slightly. "It 
 would be very pleasant for me," he says, " but I 
 cannot think that it would be satisfactory as far 
 as Sunderland's friends are concerned. He is one 
 of the most agreeable and popular people in the 
 world, while I — well, it is not good taste to abuse 
 one's self, so I will leave you to discover what I 
 am. Miss Tyrrell." 
 
 " I have already discovered that you are very 
 modest," says Flora, smiling. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, but I must not let you 
 begin our acquaintance with a mistaken idea of 
 me. I am not modest at all — sometimes I enter- 
 tain an insufferably good opinion of myself ; but 
 then I know, and take no credit for knowing, 
 what I am not. You are probably aware that 
 Sunderland is an exceptionally pleasant person." 
 
 " You are very kind to say so." 
 
36 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 "Not in the least. Why is it kind to admit 
 excellence which we cannot alter by one jot or 
 tittle? Sunderland is exceptionally pleasant — 
 even in the great metropolis, where he is now, 
 people feel his charm. I am not surprised, there- 
 fore, that I have found such a warm recollection 
 of him here in his native country. Even the boy 
 who drove me over from Brevard dilated upon 
 his prowess in hunting and woodcraft." 
 
 " I fear you will hear a great deal of that from 
 my brothers," says Flora. " Harry is their ideal 
 of manly excellence." 
 
 " I wonder if he is yours ! " Charlton thinks, 
 glancing at the gentle, self-possessed face. 
 
 "While he is thinking this, a welcome sound 
 comes to Flora's ears — that of her father's step in 
 the hall. He has entered from the stables, for she 
 hears him put doT\Ti his whip and riding-gloves. 
 A minute later he enters the room, is presented to 
 Charlton, and shakes that gentleman cordially by 
 the hand. He has felt irritably averse to seeing a 
 stranger, but now that the stranger has come it 
 would not be possible to make him other than 
 heartily welcome. 
 
 " You will stay with us, of course," he says 
 after the first salutations are over. " What, not 
 prepared ? — your trunk in Brevard ? Send for it, 
 then — I will send a messen2:er at once." 
 
 "That is quite unnecessary," says Charlton. 
 "I have a buggy at the door." 
 
"MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET." 37 
 
 "But it need not come back," says Colonel 
 Tyrrell. " Give the boy a note — that will be suf- 
 ficient. Floy, have you writing-materials ? " 
 
 In this way Charlton — not greatly against his 
 \^dll — finds himself taken prisoner. After dis- 
 patching the note, and talking for a short time 
 with Colonel Tyrrell, he is conducted to a room 
 which was made ready for him several days be- 
 fore — a pretty, aiiy apartment, the windows of 
 which command the same view that he admired 
 down-stairs ; and having been informed that the 
 dinner-hour is two o'clock, he is left here. 
 
 " What a pleasant haven ! " he thinks, looking 
 round. A table stands by one of the windows, 
 before which is a perfect lace-work of shade — 
 green touched with gold. An inviting chintz- 
 covered chair is near. It is an ideal place in which 
 to rest, or dream, or work. 
 
 At dinner he meets and is introduced to the 
 assembled family. His presence overawes the 
 junior members somewhat, and there is not as 
 much gay talk and laughter as usual among them; 
 but the boys incline to a large-minded tolerance 
 for his literary labors when they find that he 
 knows something of out-door sports, and is not 
 averse to learning more. 
 
 " This country is so much a terra incognita to 
 the majority of travelers," he says, "that I, who 
 have merely wandered hither through the lucky 
 accident of knowing Sunderland, must learn as 
 
38 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 much about it as I can, in order to enlighten the 
 rest of the world, as far as my efforts are able to 
 do so, when I return. I trust that you, sir " — he 
 addresses Colonel Tyrrell — "will add to your 
 kindness by directing me how best to make a tour 
 through it." 
 
 " I shall be very glad to do so," replies Colonel 
 Tyrrell. " You had better rest and recruit your 
 health for a week or ten days ; and after it is 
 thoroughly established, you can make excursions 
 to all points of interest in the country around." 
 
 "Zam just back from the Balsam," puts in 
 George. " We were a party of six, and we had a 
 glorious time. The streams up there are so full 
 of speckled trout that you can catch 'em by the 
 hundi'eds just for the trouble of throwing your 
 line in the water." 
 
 " If I may be pardoned for the ignorance which 
 the inquiry displays," says Charlton, "where is 
 the Balsam?" 
 
 To answer that question intelligently, Colonel 
 Tyrrell proceeds to draw a map of the region on 
 the table-cloth with one point of a fork, tracing 
 off in a general way the mountain chains which 
 surround and the ranges which cross it. Charl- 
 ton looks on interestedly, and presently, turning 
 to Flora, asks if she has explored it all. 
 
 She shakes her head. " By no means. I know 
 our own valley and all surrounding it very well ; 
 but I have never been in the remoter parts of the 
 
"MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET." 39 
 
 mountains, among the Balsam or the Cullowhee 
 Mountains." 
 
 " But you want to go, Floy — you know you 
 do," says Oscar ; " and when I am grown I will 
 take you." 
 
 " I hope Miss Tyrrell will not need to wait so 
 loDg for an escort," says Charlton, smiling. 
 
 When he smiles his face lights up very ge- 
 nially, though in repose it is rather impassive ; 
 and seeing it now in a broad light. Flora perceives 
 that it looks worn and pallid. The temples are 
 sunken, and there are the dark circles under the 
 eyes which a sedentary life and mental toil soon 
 bring. Contrasted with the ruddy, sunburned 
 faces near, Mr. Charlton, in short, looks decidedly 
 out of health. 
 
 After dinner he pauses in the hall and asks 
 which of the boys will pilot him out among the 
 hills. " I don't care where," he says, " so it is 
 out-of-doors." 
 
 " We are going fishing," says Oscar. " If you 
 would like to come — " 
 
 "Just the thing," says Charlton, taking his hat. 
 
 At sunset the boys return, carrying a fine string 
 of fish and full of enthusiasm with regard to their 
 companion. 
 
 " He's a first-rate fellow ! " says George. " I 
 hadn't any idea that a man who wi'ofe would like 
 the things he does. He's a good fisherman, and 
 
40 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 he says he's a tolerable shot — we are going hunt- 
 ing to-morrow." 
 
 ^* I shouldn't think a writer would care about 
 such things as fishing and hunting," observes 
 Minnie, scornfully. 
 
 " But you see he is a writer, and he does care," 
 replies her brother. " He has hunted moose and 
 caribou in Nova Scotia, and caught trout at Cape 
 Breton. Do you know where Cape Breton is, 
 Miss Minnie ? Let me hear you bound it." 
 
 This conversation takes place in the dining- 
 room, just before supper. It is cut short by 
 Hester's ringing the bell ; and the gentlemen, 
 who have been talking on the piazza, come in. 
 Charlton thinks, as he enters, that the pretty, old- 
 fashioned tea-table has an attractive appearance. 
 Everything has a quaint, pastoral seeming to his 
 metropolitan eyes. The distinctively Southern 
 breads, the fish that a few hours ago were placid- 
 ly swimming in their native element, the amber 
 honey in the honeycomb — all have an Arcadian 
 flavor to the man of clubs and cafes. 
 
 After supper the gloaming still holds the 
 world in a spell of beauty. Lamps are carried 
 into the sitting-room, but only Minnie follows 
 them, and sits down by the table to read a novel. 
 The trio of gentlemen — for Mr. Martin makes one 
 of the family circle — return to the piazza to 
 smoke. Though debarred from enjoying this 
 luxury, George and Oscar join the group. Flora, 
 
"MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET." 41 
 
 accompanied by Nellie, who is her usual shadow, 
 strolls down the lawn to the river-bank. 
 
 The air is fresh and fragrant, filled with the 
 odor of many different growing things — that in- 
 definable perfume which evening always brings 
 out on a water-course. The breadths of cultivated 
 land stretch away into softest distance ; near at 
 hand the hills are draped in tender shades of pur- 
 ple and blue, but farther off the violet peaks stand 
 outlined against a sky of pale gold, flecked here 
 and there with rosy vapors, out of which Venus 
 shines with serene lustre. The sunset illumina- 
 tion is over, but this twilight is scarcely less beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 " What a lovely evening, Miss Tyrrell ! " says 
 a quiet, well-modulated voice at her side. She 
 starts and turns. Unheard, Charlton has ap- 
 proached over the grass. " Like Paul Pry, let 
 me say that ' I hope I don't intrude,' " he adds. 
 " But I am not particularly fond of smoking, and 
 you seemed to be enjoying the gloaming, so I 
 thought I might venture to follow." 
 
 " Certainly," answers Flora, with her gentle 
 accent ; but he is a man of quick perceptions, and 
 he feels that he has intruded on some mood to 
 which his presence is not attuned. It is too late 
 for retreat, however, and when she says, " We are 
 looking at Yenus — Nellie and I," he replies : 
 
 " How brilliant she is ! — and that mountain- 
 line yonder, how exquisitely it is defined against 
 
42 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 the sky ! What an enchanted place this seems to 
 be altogether ! I suppose it does not strike you 
 so, since you live here always ; but to me — " 
 
 " You are mistaken," she says, as he pauses. 
 " It strikes me all the more, perhaps, for living 
 here. I know these mountains in all their changes, 
 and never weary of them. But I am glad that 
 you like our country, Mr. Charlton. I hope you 
 will stay with us as long as you like it." 
 
 " That might be too long," he answers. " But 
 you are very kind. I hope to stay some time." 
 
 " And you will do as you please, I hope," she 
 goes on with timid yet charming grace. " I mean 
 you will feel at home, and regulate your time and 
 occupations without regard to us." 
 
 " You are more than kind," he says, grateful- 
 ly ; " but Sunderland told me that you would 
 recommend me to some quiet farm-house — " 
 
 " Is not this house quiet enough for you ? " she 
 asks. " I fear you are hopelessly taken captive. 
 Harry said we must keep you, and papa vfill never 
 agree to let you go." 
 
 Charlton looks resigned to captivity. " I can 
 hardly realize my good fortune," he says. " I 
 undertook this journey in a spirit of complete in- 
 difference, and I had no idea of being so well re- 
 warded at the end of it. In a measure, this is not 
 all holiday with me. I have come to work as 
 well as to rest. But nevertheless I mean to ex- 
 plore this El Dorado of yours. Miss Tyrrell. Will 
 
"IN NATURE'S EYES." 43 
 
 you tell me again the names of those places you 
 mentioned at dinner ? And where are they to be 
 found ? " 
 
 " Come to the house, and I will show vou on 
 the map," says Flora, turning and leading the way 
 back over the la-svTi. They hear Colonel Tyrrell's 
 voice talking on the piazza ; through the open 
 window of the sitting-room they see the globe- 
 like lamj)s, and Minnie's fair head bent over her 
 book. Behind them the tender glow of the sunset 
 still lingers over the darkening mountains ; stars 
 are gleaming out in the misty sky above ; all 
 around is fragrance and stillness — stillness which 
 seems filled rather than broken by the soft rush 
 of the river, as it flows along the base of the sum- 
 mer hills. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " IX nature's eyes to look and to rejoice." 
 
 Several days pa«s, and the manuscript of his 
 novel lies untouched in Mr. Charlton's trunk. 
 " Rest must come before work," that gentleman 
 says to himself ; and rest with him means to steep 
 his spirit as much as possible in the loveliness of 
 Nature. Consequently, his days are spent out-of- 
 doors. He goes hunting with George, he goes 
 fishing with Oscar, he goes riding with the colo- 
 nel, and, above all, he goes walking by himself. 
 
44 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 He is the least troublesome of visitors, Flora de- 
 cides. The others grow used to his presence, and 
 the placid current of the household existence flows 
 on as if he made no part of it. 
 
 After a while he rouses from the lethargy 
 which for a time seems to weigh upon him — the 
 reaction from a severe strain of mental toil — and 
 in the pure air, the absolute rej)ose, the regular 
 life which surrounds him, finds his body recover 
 health and his mind regain its tone. Then he ex- 
 erts himself to return, at least in a measure, the 
 kindness so unobtrusively showered upon him. It is 
 not difficult to do this. People like the Tyrrells, 
 who live remote from the great centres of culture, 
 yet are not without mental and social refinement, 
 welcome gladly anything which brings into their 
 life a breath of the world far away. 'No one 
 questions Mr. Charlton concerning the famous 
 places he has visited, or the famous people he has 
 known ; but when he begins to speak of them vol- 
 untarily, he finds eager and attentive listeners. 
 Flora in especial is always interested, and one 
 day, meeting her frank, intelligent eyes, he sud- 
 denly remembers that he has not yet advanced a 
 step toward executing Sunderland's commission. 
 What degree of affection or fancy this gentle 
 maiden has for her cousin he does not know. It 
 occurs to him that it ought to be easy for him to 
 learn : and he forthwith decides to brino: to bear 
 on Miss Tyrrell all that worldly knowledge and 
 
"IN NATURE'S EYES." 45 
 
 professional observation of which Sunderland 
 spoke. " She is an interesting study," he thinks. 
 " If I draw her out, I may make her character of 
 use in my novel. It strikes me that Bertha " — 
 this is one of his heroines — " is very much of a 
 nonentity. If she were drawn a little more on 
 the model of this young chatelaine^ it might im- 
 prove her." 
 
 Opportunities for the study in question are 
 not lacking. An hour or two after this reflection, 
 Oscar rushes up-stairs, three steps at a time, and 
 knocks on Mr. Charlton's door as if an earthquake 
 were imminent. 
 
 " What is the matter ? Come in ! " says that 
 gentleman, who has just settled himself to his 
 neglected work. 
 
 " Mr, Charlton ! " cries Oscar, opening the 
 door at once, " don't you want to go to the Falls 
 of Conestee ? We are all going, and sister Floy 
 told me to ask you — " 
 
 " Certainly, I want to go," answers Mr. Charl- 
 ton, rising with alacrity. He has not the faintest 
 idea where the Falls of Conestee are, nor what 
 they are, nor anything about them ; but he is as 
 eager as Oscar for anything which will take him 
 out into the open air and among the fair hills. 
 
 When he goes do^\Ti he finds the family assem- 
 bled on the piazza, while a light and convenient 
 wagonette stands before the door, together with 
 two horses saddled for riding. Flora meets him. 
 
46 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 " Papa insisted that I should send for you," 
 she says ; " but should you really like to go with 
 us ? Pray do not hesitate to say ' No,' if you 
 would rather not." 
 
 " Why should you imagine that I would rather 
 not ? " asks Charlton. " On the contrary, I am 
 as anxious as possible to go. But where are you 
 bound ? " 
 
 She laughs. "Your faith is charming," she 
 says. " You are anxious to go, and have not an 
 idea where we are bound ! AYell, we are going 
 to a place which I think will repay you for the 
 exertion you are about to make — that is, the Falls 
 of Conestee. Now, will you ride or drive ? " 
 
 Charlton sees that she wears a habit, and an- 
 nounces that he will ride. Colonel Tyrrell is not 
 going. Mr. Martin, George, Oscar, Minnie, and 
 Nellie climb into the wagonette and drive merri- 
 ly off. Charlton assists his companion to the sad- 
 dle, then mounts himself, and they follow. 
 
 The afternoon is perfect — still, golden, and 
 beautiful ; and the distant peaks seem clear-cut 
 against the sky. All of summer's abounding 
 wealth is spread over the lovely valley, while the 
 greenness which clothes the land from crested 
 hill to level meadow is full of freshness and de- 
 light. Shadows quiver, blades of corn softly 
 rustle, and there is a subdued medley of sweet 
 pastoral sounds in the air. 
 
 Crossing the bridge, they ride through the 
 
"IN NATURE'S EYES." 47 
 
 cornfields, and along the banks of tlie swiftly- 
 flowing stream, until they reach the foot of that 
 mountain which in this land of mountains is only 
 known as "Mill Hill." Here cool green woods 
 droop, overshadowing hillsides rise, streams ripple 
 through mosses and over stones with impetuous 
 dash, the verdure is tropical in its luxuriance. 
 As they mount higher — for the well-graded road 
 winds in sweeping curves around the mountain — 
 distant views open before them. Hill rises behind 
 hill, peak beyond peak ; the sapphire mountains 
 spread to meet the sky. Their road is now a mere 
 shelf along the mountain-side, and before long 
 they hear the turbulent dash of water in the gorge 
 below. 
 
 " That is the stream from the falls," says Flora. 
 " Look 1 you can catch glimpses of the water 
 foaming over the rocks." 
 
 Only a glimpse through interlacing greenness 
 of curling foam and glancing spray — then anoth- 
 er glimpse, and yet another, until the road turns 
 and leads them away. They have by this time 
 reached the top of the hill, and pause near the 
 spot where the wagonette has been left empty in 
 the shade. Here they dismount, and Charlton 
 fastens the horses. This accomplished, Flora 
 gathers up her habit and they walk past a small, 
 old-fashioned mill, with the sound of rushing 
 water momentarily becoming clearer in their ears, 
 until they reach a spot from which they command 
 
48 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 a view of the fall that is filling all the cloistered 
 dimness with its voice. Charlton looks around, 
 amazed. He expected a pretty, silvery cascade, 
 and he is altogether surprised by the flashing 
 splendor of the tumultuous waters before him. 
 The stream makes its first fall in one clear, beau- 
 tiful cataract of about fifty feet, then dashes down 
 the gorge in a series of rapids, lashing itself to 
 white foam over and around the massive rocks 
 that line its course. Two hundred feet below an- 
 other stream pours into it, and then, pent in a 
 narrow channel, with a declination of forty-five 
 or fifty degrees, the united current tumbles, 
 whirls, and surges for five hundred feet farther. 
 
 " One must have recourse to Wordsworth, I 
 think," says Charlton, at last. Then he repeats 
 those lines which describe a form of ecstasy that 
 every lover of Nature must have felt : 
 
 " ' The sounding cataract 
 Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock, 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
 Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
 An appetite — a feeling and a love 
 That had no need of a remoter charm.' " 
 
 " Thank you," says Flora. " I am glad some 
 one has said something worthy of the place." 
 
 " I had no idea that you were bringing me to 
 such a place," says Charlton. " It is a haunt for 
 the gods ! One might expect to see Diana and 
 her nymphs — if it were not for the mill." 
 
"IN NATURE'S EYES." 49 
 
 " That is barbarous, is it not ? But to the per- 
 son who built it that lovely fall only commended 
 itself as an excellent water-power. I regret to 
 say that such barbarism is very common," 
 
 " It would harrow an artist's soul," says Charl- 
 ton. " But where are the rest of the party ? I 
 see nothing of them." 
 
 Flora points down the gorge. " They are 
 there somewhere," she says. " I hope Mr. Martin 
 will take care of Nellie. I am always uneasy — 
 Ah, yonder they come ! " 
 
 Charlton is not overjoyed to hear this. The 
 society of one gentle intelligent companion — one 
 who makes no effort herself, and demands no ef- 
 fort of him — is pleasant, even in this haunt of the 
 gods. But a set of noisy boys and girls are worse 
 even than the projecting mill. Mr. Martin comes 
 up, breathless with his scramble over the rocks, 
 but enthusiastic. He is a devoted naturalist, and 
 he has found several rare and beautiful plants. 
 He shows them to Flora, who is something of a 
 botanist, and they discuss them with so much in- 
 terest that Charlton walks away, slightly bored 
 and a trifle annoyed. As he proceeds down the 
 stream, he finds Minnie in a dark recess, overhung 
 by shelving rock, on her hands and knees. Turn- 
 ing her pretty flushed face, she sees him and 
 rises. 
 
 " Such lovely moss ! " she says, holding it out. 
 
 " May I come with you, Mr, Charlton ? " cries 
 4 
 

 50 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 Nellie, springing forward, and taking his smile 
 for assent. 
 
 Ferns, "which Nature made for pure leaves, 
 just to show what she could do in that line," 
 abound in almost countless variety. Even Nellie 
 has her apron full of them. She generously offers 
 Mr. Charlton as many as he wants, and he selects 
 one of the delicate maidenhairs to please her. 
 They are sitting together on an enormous rock 
 overlooking the lower fall ; and as she glances 
 up, he thinks how like her flower-like eyes are to 
 Flora's. 
 
 Will you keep it ? " she asks gravely. 
 
 As long as I live," he answers, gallantly, and 
 taking out his pocket-book places it between the 
 leaves, scribbling the name and date above it. 
 Then, since the book and pencil are in his hands, 
 he goes on to jot down a few notes of the scene, 
 and one or two thoughts that have occurred to 
 him. Engrossed in this manner, he does not no- 
 tice his companion, further than to answer her 
 prattle very much at random. The demoiselle 
 feels and resents this neglect. Gathering her col- 
 lection of ferns together, she announces her in- 
 tention of going to "Floy." Charlton, who is 
 writing busily, does not hear her, and so he does 
 not interfere when she begins the descent of the 
 rock. He is not conscious that she has quitted his 
 side until he is roused in a manner that he never 
 forgets. Only a child's cry — but the earth open- 
 
"IN NATURE'S EYES." 51 
 
 ing at his feet could not startle him more. In- 
 stinctively he springs forward, his book and pen- 
 cil dropping unheeded from his hands. But Nellie 
 is gone. 
 
 Strong man that he is, a faintness comes over 
 Charlton that threatens to unnerve him altogether, 
 as he glances round and sees no sign of her. There 
 is no use in calling aloud ; the waters drowm all 
 sound — it was almost miraculous that he heard 
 that faint cry a moment back. He swings him- 
 self down the rock with headlong speed, and on 
 the bank overlooking the stream gazes round with 
 a passionate appeal in his glance. 
 
 It seems an age, but it cannot be a minute, be- 
 fore he sees that which he seeks — a white, implor- 
 ing face, a blue dress, a floating wealth of yellow 
 hair. In her fall, Nellie has been caught in the 
 forked trunk of a leaning tree ; and, knowing that 
 it is her only hope, she clings there, with both 
 arms tightly twined around the rough bark and 
 her piteous eyes turned upward. The peril of her 
 situation is evident at a glance ; but even this to 
 the young man is a great relief. The horrible, 
 sickening sense of despaii* is lifted from him. 
 There is something to do. 
 
 lie proceeds at once to do it. It is no easy 
 task to descend to where the child has lodged, but 
 he goes down with what care he may ; and after 
 securing himself against the danger of slipping by 
 bracing one foot against a small sapling that leans 
 
52 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 out from the face of the precipice, he puts his arm 
 around Nellie and bids her cling to him instead 
 of to the tree. She needs no second bidding to do 
 this, but flings her arms with almost convulsive 
 force about his neck. So weighted, it is very dif- 
 ficult to climb up again ; but, step by step, hand 
 over hand, he mounts slowly, until his head is on 
 a level with a bank. Then there comes a terrible 
 wrench of his foot, which has caught in the root 
 of a tree — a wrench so sharp that it wrings from 
 him a groan of agony, and might cause him to fall 
 backward if it were not that he has presence of 
 mind enough to seize the stem of a young pine 
 growing near. 
 
 " Nellie," he says, " do you think you could 
 climb the rest of the way by yourself, and then go 
 very carefully to where the others are, and ask 
 George and Mr. Martin to come here and lend me 
 a helping hand ? " 
 
 Before Nellie can answer, a voice, to his infi- 
 nite amazement, speaks just above him. " Give 
 Nellie to me, Mr. Charlton. I can take her." 
 
 He throws back his head and looks up. On 
 the verge of the precipice Flora kneels, her face 
 marble-pale, her blue eyes shining T\dth steady 
 lustre. As their glances meet, she leans doT\Ti 
 and extends her arms. " Give Nellie to me ! " 
 she repeats. 
 
 He has no alternative but to obey. In his pre- 
 carious position, it is certainly imperative that he 
 
"IN NATURE'S EYES." 53 
 
 should be rid of Nellie in some manner. " Be 
 careful ! " he says, as he lifts her ; " you may lose 
 your balance." 
 
 " There is no danger," she answers quietly — 
 and indeed there seems to be none. Even in the 
 midst of his pain, Charlton wonders at her cool- 
 ness and self-possession. She steadies herself ad- 
 mirably while she draws Nellie to her. It is only 
 when the child is safely by her side that her self- 
 control gives way, and she passionately kisses her. 
 This is only for a moment, however. Then she 
 places Nellie back against the rock, and, returning, 
 kneels do^vn again. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Charlton," she says, " let me help 
 you. You have hurt yourself, have you not ? " 
 
 " I have twisted my ankle, I think," he an- 
 swers. " It hurts very much. But it is impossi- 
 ble for you to help me. George or Mr. Martin — " 
 
 " George and Mr. Martin have both gone to 
 sec about the wagonette," she interrupts. " I can- 
 not leave you here while I go or send after them. 
 You must let me help you. I am strong — you 
 don't know how strong ! See, here is a stick I 
 was using as an alpenstock. If you will take it, 
 and give me your hand, I am sure I can assist you. 
 Pray give me your hand ! " 
 
 He cannot refuse, though he has little idea that 
 she will be able to assist him. But who can esti- 
 mate the strength which a brave spirit can put 
 into a slender frame? Fragile as she looks. Flora 
 
54 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 has the firm muscles of perfect health, together 
 with the skill of a mountaineer ; and so, to his 
 own astonishment, Charlton finds himself trusting 
 more and more to the resolute young hand, until 
 it draws him over the edge of the bank, and he 
 feels that he is safe. He gives another wrench to 
 his foot in his final spring, however, and the pain 
 mists all things before him. As he sinks down, 
 he hears, as in a dream, the kind voice saying : 
 
 "I am sure you are suffering a great deal. 
 Shall I bring you some water ? " 
 
 a 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LINGER, O GENTLE TIME !" 
 
 When Charlton comes to himself again — for 
 he loses all knowledge of things around for a 
 brief space — he is lying on the ground, while a 
 tender hand bathes his face with cold water. He 
 opens his eyes, and sees first the blue sky far 
 above, and then something else which is as blue — 
 to wit, a pair of human orbs regarding him. 
 
 " Do you feel better ? " Flora asks. " I fear 
 you are in great pain." 
 
 Charlton's first sensation is one of intense 
 annoyance. What has he done ? Can it be 
 possible that he has fainted, like a sick child, 
 from the mere pain of a twisted foot ? Flora 
 
" LINGER, GENTLE TIME ! " 55 
 
 sees the color spring to his pale face, but she does 
 not understand the cause of it. She takes away 
 her hand, and as he rises to a sitting posture, his 
 first words are significant of his state of feeling. 
 
 " I am ashamed of myself ! " he says. " What 
 possessed me to make such a scene over such a 
 mere trifle, I cannot tell ! Pray forgive me, Miss 
 Tyn-ell." 
 
 " Forgive you ! " repeats Flora. " What 
 have you done that I need to forgive ? Are you 
 siu'e you feel better ? You cannot tell how 
 shocked I was when I saw you lean back and 
 turn so white ! I think you must have lost con- 
 sciousness for a minute." 
 
 "I — suppose I did," says Charlton. " I 
 wrenched my foot again as I sprang over the 
 bank, and the pain was really very intense. 
 Your application of cold water did me a great 
 deal of good. But pray tell me how you chanced 
 to be on the bank just when you were most 
 needed ? I am not, as a rule, inclined to poeti- 
 cal metaphor ; but I could have likened you 
 to an angel of rescue when I glanced up and 
 saw you." 
 
 " I had been there all the time," she replies, 
 quietly. " But I was afraid to speak for fear of 
 startling you." 
 
 " All the time ! You mean—? " 
 
 " I mean ever since you went down. No one 
 could tell me where Nellie was, and I did not 
 
56 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 know that she had attached herself to you, so I 
 came in search of her. I was in sight when you 
 sprang down the rock, and I knew from your 
 manner that something was the matter, but I 
 could not make you hear. I hurried on as fast as 
 I could, and reached the top of the bank just 
 when you were releasing Nellie. I would not 
 have spoken for anything — even if you could 
 have heard me. I scarcely dared to breathe in 
 my suspense. Oh, Mr. Charlton, don't think me 
 ungrateful because I do not know how to thank 
 you — " 
 
 " Excuse me, Miss TjTrell," interrupts Charl- 
 ton, " but you must not mention such a word. 
 Instead of thanking, you ought to blame me. It 
 was all my fault. I was scribbling in my note- 
 book and neglecting the child — else she would 
 not have fallen. Is not that true, Nellie ? " 
 
 But Nellie is a conscientious young person, 
 and she cannot indorse this. She looks up at her 
 sister with tears in her eyes. " It was my fault, 
 Floy," she says ; " Mr. Charlton was ^Titing, and 
 I — I thought I could get down myself. Then 
 my foot slipped, and oh ! I thought I was gone. 
 All my ferns went, and I fell down the bank till 
 the tree stopped me." 
 
 " Never mind," says Charlton, cheerily. " It 
 is all right now — at least it ought to be. But 
 what is to be done with this foot of mine is a 
 serious question. Miss Tyrrell, can you suggest 
 
"LINGER, O GENTLE TIME!" 57 
 
 anything ? I fear I can never climb over these 
 rocks." 
 
 " Xot even with the alpenstock and my arm ? " 
 asks Flora. " Or had I better go and send for 
 Mr. Martin and George ? " 
 
 " If you will allow me, I think I will try the 
 alpenstock and your arm," says Charlton. " If I 
 can once get on my feet, no doubt it will be easy 
 enough to hobble along." 
 
 Flora hands him the stick, and then assists 
 him. He gains his feet — or rather, to speak with 
 entire correctness, he gains one foot, and stands 
 leaning on that and the stick with an almost ludi- 
 crous expression of mingled pain and uncertainty 
 on his face. 
 
 " Now take my arm," says Flora. " Oh, you 
 must ; it is impossible that you can walk by yom*- 
 self. And you know there is a great deal of 
 climbing to be done. Nellie, keep close to me. 
 One accident should be enough for you." 
 
 It boots not to tell in what slow and toilsome 
 fashion these three make their way back to the 
 neighborhood of the upper fall. " The sun's 
 bright lances" have long since left the cloistral 
 greenness around, but they pause now and then 
 to admire the splendor and tumult of the flashing 
 waters. It is also necessary for Charlton to rest, 
 since every movement of his foot causes him keen 
 suffering. All journeys end after a time, how- 
 ever, and so does this one. Near the mill they 
 
58 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 are met by Minnie and Oscar, and Flora dis- 
 patclies the latter at once to have the wagonette 
 brought as near as possible. " You must go home 
 in that," she says to Charlton. 
 
 He cannot deny that this is necessary, and 
 does not like to acknowledge how much he feels 
 averse to it. " I suppose it will be best," he says, 
 " but I have been counting on a very pleasant ride 
 back with you." 
 
 " You mean that you prefer riding ? " she asks. 
 
 " I don't care whether I ride or drive, so far 
 as the mere question of locomotion is concerned," 
 he replies. " What I cared for was your society." 
 
 She looks honestly surj)rised, but neither blush- 
 es nor laughs. " If you are in earnest," she says, 
 " such a moderate desire can be easily gratified. 
 I will go in the wagonette too. Minnie will like 
 to ride, I am sure." 
 
 " Miss Tyrrell, you are too good ! I am really 
 ashamed of my selfishness," Charlton begins, for 
 he did not anticipate this. 
 
 But she stops him. " I like driving very well," 
 she says. "If you want me with you, I shall be 
 very glad to go." 
 
 " What a girl ! " thinks Charlton. " One might 
 suppose that she or I, or both of us, were octo- 
 genarians ! Sunderland was right. There is no 
 material for a coquette here. Some men think 
 that spice necessary to a woman's charm. I am 
 not sure that I do." 
 
"LINGER, GENTLE TIME!" 59 
 
 Miss Tyrrell is as good as her word. She re- 
 signs her horse to Minnie, who gladly mounts him. 
 George takes Charlton's horse, and so they turn 
 their faces homeward. The party in the wagon- 
 ette find the drive delightful. Soft fresh winds, 
 laden with balm, come to them from remote dis- 
 tance — winds which feel as if they might waft 
 away all care and trouble from human hearts. 
 Summer's enchanted dust is spread over the land ; 
 there are low-lying streaks of light in the golden 
 west ; the mountains are wrapped in violet haze ; 
 the great bending sky is infinitely pure and ten- 
 der ; trees arch overhead, unseen water rushes by. 
 When they reach the valley the fields spread out 
 far and faint, and all the sweet growing things on 
 the banks of the river exhale theii* perfume on the 
 evening atmosphere. 
 
 Charlton feels as if this might go on forever. 
 The closing twilight, the darkening landscape, the 
 melody of flowing water — all seem to him charged 
 with a meaning and a sentiment which a poet 
 might put into language, but a poet alone. He is 
 inclined to be silent, and Flora, feeling his mood, 
 says little. Mr. Martin and Xellie chatter in front, 
 but these two have the back seat and the lovely 
 quiet of Nature to themselves. One, at least, is 
 sorry when they l)egin to near home, and the 
 lights from the house gleam out with cheerful 
 efl;ect on the twilight. He turns to his companion : 
 
 " Will you let me thank you for the pleasure 
 
60 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 of this afternoon ? " lie says. " It has been great- 
 er than you, I fancy, can imagine. In a measure, 
 that which is familiar loses its charm to us." 
 
 " Not to me," says Flora. " I believe I told 
 you once before that I admire this country all the 
 more for knowing it so well. It is an old friend ; 
 and who loves an old friend less for knowing every 
 line in his face ? " 
 
 " Every one is not so loyal as yourself," says 
 Charlton, smiling at the soft pathos of her tone. 
 " Some people tire of their old friends. After all, 
 it is not well to be too constant." 
 
 " Are you in earnest ? " she says. " It seems 
 to me that is a very lowering philosophy." 
 
 " What would you have ? " asks Charlton. 
 "The world is lowering. But this is not the 
 world — this is Arcadia," he goes on, laughing. 
 "I forgot for a moment where I was. But I 
 shall never forget the Falls of Conestee," he adds, 
 in another tone. 
 
 " I fear your foot will remind you of them for 
 some time," she says. 
 
 She proves altogether right. Mr. Charlton's 
 foot has been very badly sprained, and makes an 
 invalid of him for several days. Flora prescribes 
 arnica for the injury, but Colonel Tyrrell insists 
 that the best treatment is unlimited use of cold 
 water ; and since Charlton yields his foot up for 
 experiments as cheerfully as if he had no personal 
 interest in its welfare, the result is a mixture of 
 
"LINGER, GENTLE TIME!" 61 
 
 remedies. Part of the time the suffering member 
 is bandaged with arnica ; at other times it is 
 bared and extended over a hirge tub, while Colo- 
 nel Tyrrell pours a stream of cold water upon it 
 from a heic^ht of four or five feet. 
 
 There are to Charlton, however, many com- 
 pensations for his enforced invalidism and the 
 hytiropathic treatment which it involves. He is 
 not a man who is easily pleased by women ; but 
 day by day he is more attracted by Flora, and 
 he seizes every opportunity to study her charac- 
 ter, to elicit her opinions, to draw out the expres- 
 sion of her tastes. They are pleasant days to 
 him. His work, it must be confessed, is wholly 
 neglected. He does not even write any letters, 
 and is absolutely indifferent whether or not he 
 receives anv. Minnie, with the acuteness of her 
 years, remarks this. 
 
 " Mr. Charlton is the only person who takes 
 no interest in the mail," she says one day while 
 that important budget is being distributed. 
 
 Mr. Charlton, who is lying back in a deep 
 chair, with his injured foot extended over an ot- 
 toman, looks at her with a smile. 
 
 " Allow me to observe, mademoiselle," he says, 
 " that you would find nothing remarkable in that 
 fact if you could only put yourself in the position 
 of a man to whom the mail cannot possibly bring 
 anything save annoyance." 
 
G2 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 Minnie's eyes expand. " Can it bring notliing 
 else to you ? " she asks, point-blank. 
 
 " Not anything else at all. You read Tenny- 
 son, I know. Do you suppose the lotos-eaters 
 would have cared much for the arrival of let- 
 ters ? I am a lotos-eater just now." 
 
 " Mr. Charlton, here are some letters for you ! " 
 cries Nellie, quitting her father's side and darting 
 forward. 
 
 " Evil fortune has found me out ! " says Charl- 
 ton, with a heart-felt sigh. Still it is impossible 
 to refrain from glancing at the missives placed in 
 his unwilling hand. One bears the printed ad- 
 dress of a publishing-house, another comes from 
 the office of the Telegraph, a third from the edi- 
 tor of a magazine to which he is usually a con- 
 stant contributor ; on the fourth he recognizes, 
 with something almost akin to dismay, the writ- 
 ing of Sunderland. Minnie recognizes it, too, 
 and impetuously announces the fact. 
 
 " Why, that is from Harry ! " she says— when, 
 catching her sister's eye with reproof in it, she 
 stops and blushes. 
 
 " I believe it is," responds Charlton. Then he 
 pockets all four of the letters and quietly unfolds 
 a newspaper which has also come to him. 
 
 He does not read these epistles — none of 
 which are particularly agreeable — until he is 
 alone. The business letters make it imperative 
 for him to go to work, and he sighs as he glances 
 
"LINGER, GENTLE TIME!" G3 
 
 over them. Sunderland's letter he opens last, 
 and finds that this is what it says : 
 
 " MoNTTvEAL, August \Oth. 
 
 " My Dear Charlton : AVhat, in the name of 
 all that is remarkable, has come over you ? What 
 spell of silence has taken possession of you ? I 
 should be inclined to think that you had failed to 
 reach Arcadia after all, if it were not that a let- 
 ter from Flora lies before me, in which she men- 
 tions your arrival, and says, with a moderation I 
 am sure you will appreciate, that you * promise to 
 be a very agreeable person.' I entertain no doubt 
 but that you have by this time fulfilled that 
 promise to her entire satisfaction, and are there- 
 fore able to throw some light on the problem 
 which is puzzling me more than ever just now, 
 and which I trusted you would elucidate. 
 
 " You know what I mean. Paper and ink are 
 unsafe things to trust ; accidents sometimes oc- 
 cur in the best-regulated correspondence, and 
 therefore prudence becomes a man, though he 
 were a second Damon T\T.'iting to another Pythias. 
 But do you, or do you not, mean to help me ? I 
 am in a position at present which it will not be 
 possible for me to maintain much longer. You 
 understand, of course, how one is carried on by 
 the force of circumstances — sometimes farther 
 than one "vsdshes or intends to go. As a man of 
 honor, I must do one of two things — declare my- 
 
64 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 self, or leave tlie party with wliich I am traveling. 
 Now, as I told you before, I do not wish to de- 
 clare myself as much as my feelings are involved, 
 until I am sure that no one else possesses, or im- 
 agines herself to possess, any claim upon me. I 
 am writing more plainly than I like, but I must 
 make things clear to you. Tell me what you 
 think, and write at once to Quebec. We go there 
 in a few days, and shall probably remain several 
 weeks. My line of conduct depends altogether 
 on what you say, for I trust implicitly to your 
 powers of observation. 
 
 " How do you like Transylvania ? Fine place, 
 isn't it ? I have never seen scenery that pleased 
 me as well anywhere else. Somehow there's a 
 softness and a boldness together, that — well, I am 
 not trained to analyze feelings, so I leave you to 
 define exactly what sentiments are inspired by the 
 combination. Have you brought down a deer 
 yet ? Flora ought to take you to the Conestee. 
 I wonder if she remembers one day when she and 
 I were there. By Jove ! when I think of these 
 things, I hardly know what to do. Write, Charl- 
 ton, for Heaven's sake, and tell me something. I 
 could sooner blow out my brains than return my 
 uncle's kindness by acting shabbily to Flora. 
 
 " There is no use in writing of anything else. 
 You know all these places better than I do. Burn 
 this letter, and answer it without delay. 
 
 " Yours, H. S." 
 
"LIXGEK, GENTLE TIME!" 65 
 
 Charlton proceeds at once to obey the direc- 
 tion contained in tlie latter part of this missive. 
 He twists it up meditatively, strikes a match, sets 
 it on fire, and throws it on the hearth, watchins: 
 the flames consume it and leave only a little pile 
 of white feathery ashes. " I'll take care that no 
 accidents occur here ! " he says, speaking aloud. 
 " Consummate young puppy ! " he adds, after a 
 moment. " And yet there's a train of chivalry in 
 his character that almost redeems the puppyism. 
 There are not many men who would trouble 
 themselves so much about a scruple of honor, and 
 the aching of a girl's heart more or less. But 
 then she is no ordinary girl," he goes on, limping 
 to his writing-table and sitting down. " Even 
 Sunderland feels that, I suppose. I fear — I great- 
 ly fear that she cares for him ! She is like her 
 native hills — steadfast, beautiful, strong, and yet 
 tender. And Zam appointed to sound the depths 
 of that fine, reticent nature ! The thing is absurd 
 and impossible. Yet, if I do not at least attempt 
 to do so, what will be the result? Sunderland 
 will marry that girl after whom he is dangling, 
 au<I this proud, gentle creature may suffer as such 
 women only know how to suffer. A malediction 
 on all lovers and love affairs ! When one has 
 none on one's own account, it seems that fate 
 malignantly appoints one's neighbors to trouble 
 one ! I will do what I can. And now it is a 
 fixed fact that I must go to work. My days of 
 5 
 
66 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 idleness are over. That essay must be finished 
 by to-morrow evening, if I have to sit up all night 
 to do it." 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 " THE MOOD OF WOMAN WHO CATi TELL ? " 
 
 N^otwithsta:^di]S'G the unfinished condition 
 of that essay on social ethics, which is already 
 overdue in the pages of the magazine to which 
 Mr. Charlton lends the force of his genius, he is 
 to be seen, as the afternoon gradually declines 
 into evening, limping down the lawn by Flora's 
 side. 
 
 From his window, he saw Colonel Tyrrell 
 drive off with Minnie and Nellie, George canter 
 aAvay with his sworn comrade Tom Fanshaw, 
 and Mr. Martin, accompanied by Oscar, go out 
 among the hills, on fishing and botany plainly in- 
 tent. Finally, when the sun slopes low toward 
 the western mountains, the much-erased sheets of 
 the manuscript are pushed aside, and the essayist 
 takes his way down to the lower regions of the 
 house. He finds Flora without difliculty, and 
 suggests a walk. 
 
 "I am the good boy who deserves a sugar- 
 plum," he says, as she hesitates. "You don't 
 know how hard I have been working during all 
 
"THE MOOD OF WOMAN WHO CAN TELL?" 67 
 
 this long, warm afternoon. Now it is nearly seven 
 o'clock, and I feel that I have earned a brief rest." 
 
 " I am sure that you have," she says. " 13ut 
 do you think you ought to walk ? Papa spoke of 
 asking you to drive with him, but he was obliged 
 to go to Brevard on business, and Minnie wanted 
 to do some shopping." 
 
 " I should have been obliged to decline going 
 with him if he had asked me. I have work that 
 I must finish at once. But you know the twilight 
 is 'labors brief armistice,' and will you not go 
 with me down to the river to enjoy it ? " 
 
 " I suppose I cannot refuse," she says. And 
 so it is they take their way down the hill — Charl- 
 ton with the stick which serves him as a partial 
 crutch. Flora with her hat hanging on her arm. 
 As they cross the lawn their shadows stretch 
 gigantically long behind them ; but Vhen they 
 reach the river bank, the region of sunlight is all 
 above. Here is a green. Undine light, a grassy 
 bank, tangled vines, emerald-tinted water sweep- 
 ing softly by under the drooping boughs of trees. 
 
 " Don't you think we had better stop here ? " 
 asks Flora. " I am afraid you ought not to walk 
 anv farther." 
 
 Charlton assenting, they sit down on the slop- 
 ing bank. There are cushions of moss around the 
 great spreading roots of the trees, and Flora be- 
 gins to fill her hat with them. " They are pretty 
 for the hanging baskets," she says. There is 
 
68 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 much grace, together with thorough unconscious- 
 ness, in her attitude. An artist, coming upon the 
 little scene, might throw a flowering spray over 
 her delicate head, and draw her for her fair Ro- 
 man namesake, the sweet goddess of flowers and 
 spring. So her companion thinks, watching her 
 and wondering how he shall introduce the subject 
 uppermost in his thoughts. Chance befriends 
 him — Flora herself begins to speak of Sunderland. 
 
 "Mosses always remind me of Harry," she 
 says. " He knew that I was fond of them, and 
 he always brought me beautiful varieties from the 
 mountains. He never went hunting that he did 
 not come back laden with them." 
 
 " If you were fond of mosses, he must have 
 been very fond of you," says Charlton, with in- 
 tent to surprise, if possible, some emotion in her 
 face or voice. " "When I first knew him he talked 
 of you continually. You have no idea how well 
 I was acquainted with you before I ever saw you." 
 
 " Were you ? " she says, simply. " It was good 
 of Harry to find time to speak of me in the whirl 
 of his new life. I fancy, however, that must have 
 been when he first entered upon it." 
 
 Charlton cannot deny this. " Of course other 
 interests claimed his attention after a while," he 
 remarks. *' But a man may be careless and yet 
 loyal. One cannot always talk even of that which 
 lies next his heart." 
 
 " Of course I know that Harry is always loyal," 
 
"THE MOOD OF WOMAN WHO aVN TELL?" 69 
 
 says Flora, Avith a very charming air of pride. " I 
 do not fear that he will forget us ; we formed too 
 close and intimate a part of his life for many years 
 for such a thing as that to be. But we are not 
 necessary to him any longer. He has passed away 
 from us to another life and other interests. I 
 realize that clearly ; and I have no doubt it is 
 best so." 
 
 The quiet voice utters these words without a 
 single tremor, the candid eyes meet Charlton's 
 gaze with a composure which he cannot believe 
 to be feigned. He confesses to himself that he is 
 puzzled. If she cares for her cousin as he has 
 imagined her to do, her powers of dissimulation 
 are marvelous for one of her years. 
 
 " Why should you think so ? " he asks, in reply 
 to her last words. "May not his best happiness 
 lie here ? I am not sure that the great maelstrom 
 of the world improves such a nature as his — a na- 
 ture warm in its affections, true in its instincts, 
 yet easily swayed by outside influences." 
 
 " Perhaps you are right," she says ; " but you 
 see it is too late to think of that now. Harry will 
 never again be content here. How do I know it ? 
 Oh, by everything — by instinct, by the tone of 
 his letters, by my knowledge of his character 
 He may be very much attached to us still — I feel 
 no doubt of that — ^but a gulf of change lies be- 
 tween our life and his. And I think that such a 
 gulf is harder to span than any other. People 
 
70 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 who begin by disliking each other may learn to 
 love ; natures may alter and characters assimilate ; 
 but when a whole world of change lies between — 
 of joys, sorrows, tastes, and pursuits — those things 
 divide hopelessly all who are not bound together 
 by close and enduring ties." 
 
 " And do you not consider Sunderland bound 
 to you by any such tie ? " asks Charlton — almost 
 forgetting how strange the question is in his anx- 
 iety to hear it answered. 
 
 " Certainly not," she answers, calmly. " How 
 could he be?" 
 
 Surely this is frankness that might satisfy any 
 man ; but Charlton is not satisfied even yet. 
 
 " Forgive me if I am presumptuous," he says, 
 " but I have understood — that is, I have fancied 
 — that you were, in a manner, engaged -to him." 
 
 " What have you seen or heard to make you 
 fancy such a thing ? " she asks. " I am sure that 
 Harry did not tell you so." 
 
 " No — not exactly," replies Charlton, conscious 
 that he has gone as far as it is possible to venture ; 
 "but I imagined something of the kind." 
 
 "You made a great mistake, then," she says, 
 " and I am glad that you have mentioned it, in 
 order that I may set you right — for Harry's sake. 
 Do you think he would stay where he is, if such 
 a thing were so ? But it is not so. Pray under- 
 stand that. We are, and always have been, like 
 brother and sister — no more than that. There is 
 
"THE MOOD OF WOMAN WHO CAN TELL?" 71 
 
 no engagement, nor shadow of engagement, be- 
 tween us." 
 
 " So far so good," thinks Charlton to himself ; 
 Sunderland is evidently not bound in honor — at 
 least not in any tangible manner. But the other 
 and subtiler question is yet unanswered. Is the 
 heart of this frank, tender maiden in his posses- 
 sion, or is it not ? How to arrive at the solution 
 of this enigma puzzles our acute novelist. While 
 he is considering it. Flora speaks again : 
 
 " Now that this point is made clear, Mr. Charl- 
 ton, I hope you will not hesitate to talk to me of 
 Harry more freely than you have done heretofore. 
 I have felt that there was a reserve and constraint 
 in all that you said of him, but I did not know 
 how to end it. Fortunately it has ended itself. 
 You know that I am only his sister, and that I 
 feel a sister's interest in everything concerning 
 him." 
 
 ^'Why should you think that I have shown 
 any reserve or constraint in speaking of him ? " 
 asks Charlton. 
 
 *' Because," she answers, "Harry is in love, 
 and you have said nothing to me about it. AVhom 
 is he in love with ? — Miss Preston ? " 
 
 "You cannot expect me to know," answers 
 Charlton, more utterly at a loss what to say than 
 he ever remembers to have been in his life be- 
 fore, but with the certainty growing strong'er that 
 Sunderland's vanity has misled him, and that 
 
72 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 this girl indeed tliinks of him as a brother, and 
 no more. 
 
 " I am sure you do ! " she says. " Harry's let- 
 ters to me of late have been singularly unsatisfac- 
 tory. You will tell me all about him, however, 
 will )^ou not ? And who is the lady ? There al- 
 ways was ' a lady in the case ' with Harry from 
 early boyhood. He was always one of the most 
 suscej)tible of human beings. I suppose people 
 of his temperament always are." 
 
 " While people of yours are always constant," 
 says Charlton, regarding her curiously. 
 
 A flush comes to her cheeks. "Never mind 
 what I am," she replies. "IN'o doubt you were 
 right the other day when you said this was a 
 world of change, and he who is wise changes with 
 it. If I am not wise in that manner, I shall prob- 
 ably suffer for my folly, sooner or later. Yet " — 
 she pauses suddenly, and her eyes turn to where 
 the beautiful masses of sunset clouds are marshal- 
 ing in great pageant — "it seems to me that I 
 would rather suffer and be faithful, than win 
 peace by fickleness." 
 
 " Don't say that ! " exclaims Charlton, with 
 an earnestness which surprises himself. "You 
 don't know how necessary it is in tliis world to 
 forget. Characters change, as you said a moment 
 ago, and feelings change with them. There is 
 nothing, believe me, for which we should be more 
 grateful than that they do." 
 
"THE MOOD OF WOMAN WHO C.VN TELL?" 73 
 
 She does not answer. He cannot tell whether 
 or not she heeds him. The large full eyes, blue 
 as woodland violets, still rest on the rose and 
 aquamarine splendor of the western sky. As 
 Charlton's gaze folloAVS hers, he catches a familiar 
 gleam shining with faint lustre out of the bed of 
 glory which the sun has left. There, 
 
 " Bent like Diana's bow and silver bright, 
 Half lost in rosy haze, a crescent hangs." 
 
 He points it out to Flora, and then they are silent, 
 watching the sunset illumination slowly fade — 
 leaving only a delicate flush above the line of dis- 
 tant mountains — and the tender dusk steal softly 
 over the land. The river, bright with the sunset's 
 parting gleam, murmurs at their feet ; the fresh 
 cool air is full of frasrrance. The sound of wheels 
 rolling over the bridge suddenly breaks the still- 
 ness. Flora starts, gathers her mosses, and rises. 
 " It is growing late," she says, " and there is papa. 
 We must go." 
 
 " No doubt you are right," says CJiarlton re- 
 gretfully ; " but it seems a pity — everything is so 
 lovely, and we are so comfortable here ! " 
 
 She smiles, standing slim and straight beside 
 him as he still lies on the grass. " It is very 
 pleasant, but pleasant things must end," she says. 
 *' We will come down here again, if you like, and 
 you can tell me all about Harry's love affair." 
 
 "Upon my word. Miss Tyrrell, you take too 
 
74 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 mucli for granted. It is a fault of your sex — did 
 you know that ? Women have a great habit of 
 leaping to conclusions — which are sometimes right, 
 and sometimes very wrong." 
 
 " I have not leaped to my conclusion ; I have 
 arrived at it by slow degrees, and I defy you to 
 say that I am wrong." 
 
 " I shall not commit myself," he says, rising. 
 " Meanwhile I am going to Aviite to Harry. Have 
 you any message ? " 
 
 "Yes — my love, and tell him to write me an 
 account of everything. If he does not, I shall 
 be angry with him, and jealous of you ; for Zwas 
 formerly his confidante." 
 
 " I beg you to believe that I do not fill that 
 honorable but onerous position. It is a matter of 
 mere accident that I know anything whatever 
 of his affairs. I have no doubt, if he has any- 
 thing to tell, he will gladly unbosom himself to 
 you — secure of the sympathy which he has no 
 possible chance of obtaining from me." 
 
 They mount the hill, cross the lawn, and enter 
 the house. Tea is soon ready, and after this in- 
 formal meal the gentlemen, as usual, go out on 
 the piazza to smoke. The windows of the draw- 
 ing-room are open, and Flora sings, by her father's 
 request, some of the sweet old Scotch and Irish 
 ballads which are the only songs she knows. It 
 has been many a day since Charlton has heard any 
 of these, and he listens with pleasure. Somehow 
 
"THE MOOD OF WOM^VJ^ WHO CAX TELL?'' 75 
 
 the pathos of Burns and the grace of Moore suit 
 the idyllic life in which he finds himself. Then 
 Flora's voice, though untrained, is singularly sweet, 
 and she sings with taste and feeling. As the clear 
 notes ring out, " There's not in the wide world a 
 valley so sweet," Charlton feels that he can echo 
 the sentiment from the bottom of his heart. 
 
 "When he retires to his room, he draws a sheet 
 of paper to him, and answers Sunderland's appeal 
 before proceeding to the manuscrij^t on which he 
 will probably toil until the early summer dawn 
 breaks in the purple east. His letter is brief — 
 containing only these few lines : 
 
 " Throw yourself at Miss Preston's feet as 
 soon as you please. Miss Tyi-rell does not con- 
 sider you bound to her in the least. I am inclined 
 to think that she cares for you ' as a cousin, 
 cousinly,' and not a whit more. She suspects that 
 you are engaged in some affair of the heart, and de- 
 sires me to give you her love and say that she will 
 be glad to have a full account of it from you. Do 
 not imagine that I betrayed you. She divined the 
 important fact by the pure force of feminine intui- 
 tion. I owe you many thanks for the pleasant place 
 in which I find myself, and for the kindness with 
 which I am treated — mainly because I am distin- 
 guished by your friendship. I will wi'ite more at 
 length soon. Am pressed for time now, and remain, 
 "Yours, Geoffrey Charlton." 
 
76 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "love was in the next degree." 
 
 A WEEK or ten days elapse. Then before 
 Colonel Tyrrell's door there is a bustle such as 
 always accompanies setting forth on a journey. 
 The wagonette stands there, drawn by the fine 
 bay horses that are their master's special pride. 
 Pixie and Dixie, two beautiful deer-hounds, are 
 bounding about as if they knew that an " outing " 
 was before them. Colonel Tyrrell's saddle-horse 
 is held by a servant near by. Nellie, in a state of 
 glee almost equal to that of the dogs, hovers to 
 and fro on the piazza. Her little heart is full to 
 overflowing with happiness. She is going — shcy 
 Nellie — on a journey to Caesar's Head ! 
 
 Presently the others appear on the piazza — 
 Colonel Tyrrell smoking, Charlton ten degrees 
 more sunburned than when he reached Transyl- 
 vania. Minnie follows them. Then Flora ap- 
 pears, shakes hands with Mr. Martin and Oscar, 
 who are to be left behind, and is assisted by 
 Charlton into the wagonette. He is to drive, and 
 she shares the front seat with him, Minnie and 
 Nellie occupying the one behind. Colonel Tyrrell 
 mounts his horse ; a small negro boy darts away 
 to open the gate ; they roll gayly out, across the 
 bridge with the translucent water flowing under- 
 
"LOYE WAS IX THE NEXT DEGREE." 77 
 
 ncath — water full of lovely opal tints — and into 
 the valley beyond. The air is buoyant with the 
 freshness of early morning, the shadows are long, 
 the colors of the mountains are exquisite. 
 
 As they drive along the valley, the music of 
 the river in their ears, the glad morning light on 
 the hills, a shifting picture before their eyes of 
 green and gold, swift motion and exquisite repose, 
 cool shadows and glancing brightness, with the 
 steadfast grandeur of mountains in the back- 
 ground. Flora feels that it is like a Benedicite. 
 Her face is like one, Charlton thinks. The sweet 
 flickering color comes and goes on her cheeks, her 
 eyes are the color of the distant heights where 
 they lie faint and far against the sky, her delicate 
 lips stir unconsciously into soft smiles. 
 
 Their road lies over Mill Hill, with the gi-eat 
 panorama spread before them to the farthest verge 
 of the horizon, crest upon crest, peak behind peak, 
 graceful lines blending, splendid forms towering. 
 The symmetrical point of Pisgah is a landmark as 
 it stands out clearly defined, and wearing its most 
 heavenly tint in the lucid atmosphere. On they 
 go, mounting higher and yet higher — green shade 
 arching over, misty depths of verdure far below, 
 waters dashing, flowers shining, ferns and mosses 
 in profusion. Presently they enter a pass, hemmed 
 in by mighty hills. It is a region of enchanted 
 loneliness, of dazzling lights and solemn shadow. 
 Great heights tower above, overhung with mas- 
 
78 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 sive rocks, to which veils of softest moss and tan- 
 gled vines cling ; dark gorges lie below, full of 
 green, misty gloom — gloom which no lance of sun- 
 light pierces ; far in the depths is to be heard the 
 rush of falling water. The way grows wilder and 
 steeper. Looking up at the great mountain which 
 dominates the pass, they see a shimmer of sun- 
 light among the twigs and stems and sprays of 
 foliage, and the overhanging rocks are full of 
 wonderful tints ; but their way is in shadow — 
 shadow delightful in its beauty and refreshment. 
 "This is Jones's Gap," says Flora. "It leads 
 over the Blue Ridge, down to South Carolina." 
 
 " Do we follow it long ? " asks Charlton. 
 
 " No ; we turn off very soon now, and ascend 
 the mountain to which we are bound. Here is 
 the place — to the right, over that bridge, Mr. 
 Charlton." 
 
 Over the bridge they pass, and begin the as- 
 cent of the mountain. The road is very winding, 
 their progress is very slow, and the day would 
 prove very warm but for the forest shade which 
 is over them, and the pure freshness of the air. 
 All around is the untouched luxuriance of virgin 
 Nature. " Where is the view, Floy ? " asks Nel- 
 lie, anxiously. 
 
 " We shall soon come to it," answers Flora. 
 " We are near the summit. Ah, there is a 
 glimpse ! " Minnie utters a cry of delight. Is 
 it the ocean — that marvelous blue plain stretch- 
 
"LOVE WAS IX THE NEXT DEGREE." 79 
 
 ing to infinite distance, of which they catch a 
 gleam through interlacing foliage ? 
 
 " Draw up yonder — where you see those rocks," 
 says Flora, pointing forward. " We must go out 
 on the Head. It is not a good time of day for 
 the view, but still — " 
 
 " Of course we must go," says Minnie. She 
 is out of the wagonette almost before it is drawn 
 up. The rest descend more soberly ; the horses 
 are left in the shade. On this side the mountain 
 shelves down in an abrupt precipice to the plain be- 
 low. The jutting rock formation which, viewed 
 from the side, makes a rude outline of a human 
 head — and in another place, even more marked, 
 of a lion's — is the point from which the eye sweeps 
 over a limitless view. 
 
 On their right the great chain of the Blue 
 Ridge stretches westward, but in every other di- 
 rection lies a boundless plain, over which hangs a 
 magical blue light, deepening into distance till 
 land and sky blend in glimmering mist. 
 
 *' Are you disappointed ? " asks Flora, turning 
 to Charlton. "I feared you might be — I have 
 said so much." 
 
 " You have not said nearly enough," he an- 
 swers. "I had not imaG^ined anvthin<j: half so 
 beautiful. AVhat an ocean-like effect ! " 
 
 " Floy, there's a gentleman coming round the 
 rock T)chind us," whispers Nellie. 
 
 P'lora tui'ns ; then she smiles, and utters an 
 
80 A SUMMER IDYL, 
 
 exclamation. Tlie face which I^ellie espied, glanc- 
 ing round a large bowlder, is familiar to her. " Is 
 that you, Mr. Brandon ? " she says, in her sweet, 
 cordial voice. Then she holds out her hand. 
 *' How do you do ? — and where do you come 
 from?" 
 
 At this Mr. Brandon's entire figure appears. 
 He lifts his hat, showing a frank, open face. His 
 eyes light up. He, too, smiles. 
 
 "This is a most unexpected pleasure. Miss 
 Flora," he says. " I was down in the cave with 
 a book and a cigar, when I heard voices above, 
 and thought I would come up and see who they 
 were. Why, Nellie, have you forgotten me ? Is 
 that Minnie?" 
 
 " Is it you, JVIr. Frank ? " says Minnie, turning 
 round from her contemplation of the view. 
 
 There are hand-shakings, greetings, inquiries. 
 Charlton walks away. This interruption is like a 
 jarring discord in music to him. He goes to the 
 extreme verge of the rocks, and stands there, look- 
 ing out into space. Below birds are wheeling like 
 tiny specks ; over the boundless expanse of coun- 
 try soft cloud-shadows lie ; the breeze is pure and 
 fresh enough to have come from the courts of 
 Paradise. The great rugged cliffs of the moun- 
 tain are feathered over with the forest-growth 
 which in these regions springs everywhere. 
 
 Presently they turn and go back to the wagon- 
 ette, drive a quarter of a mile farther, and draw 
 
"LOVE WAS IN THE NEXT DEGREE." 81 
 
 up before the long piazza of the hotel, where 
 Colonel Tyrrell is seated — one of a grouj> of 
 gentlemen who are smoking at their ease. 
 
 At dinner, to Charlton's disgust, Mr. Brandon 
 asserts his rights of old friendship by taking a 
 seat at Flora's side and talking to her with great 
 animation. Every other one of his speeches is 
 prefaced with " Do you remember ? " — a form of 
 address naturally disgusting to a new friend, 
 since it indicates many memories in common. 
 Flora is kind and courteous, but she does not en- 
 courage these reminiscences. The reason of this 
 soon appears. 
 
 '^We were here together once before," says 
 JMr. Brandon, with the best possible intention of 
 making himself agreeable. " Two years ago, I 
 believe it was. I remember that Harry was with 
 us, and I have not seen him since. What a de- 
 licrhtful time we had ! I was thinkino: of it as I 
 lay down in the cave just before I heard your 
 voice above. Odd, wasn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes, it was a singular coincidence," answers 
 Flora. She speaks quietly, but Charlton — who by 
 this time has learned to know every trick of her 
 face and tone of her voice — feels that the subject 
 is distasteful to her. He finds himself wondering 
 why this should be. Having decided that she cares 
 nothing for Harry, he has of late given little 
 thought to that gentleman ; but now Frank Bran- 
 don's careless words bring back a sense of doubt. 
 
 
82 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 How pleasantly the days go by, those who 
 have spent such days of golden summer need 
 not be told. It is like an idyl — and one of Na- 
 ture's own telling — only to sit on the rocks, in the 
 mellow sunshine, and watch the great white bil- 
 lowy clouds sailing athwart the sky, their soft 
 shadows falling over the far- stretching land, over 
 plantations that look like gardens, over hills like 
 mounds, over distant towns with steeples shining, 
 over wooded mountain-sides on which the blue 
 haze of distance lies. On one of the crag-like 
 points which command this view Flora sits one 
 morning, with Charlton on a rock at her feet. 
 They have been talking idly. Now and then si- 
 lence settles over them. It does so now. Sev- 
 eral minutes elapse before either speaks again. 
 Finally voices float to them, and Charlton, stir- 
 ring slightly, frowns. 
 
 " Some people are coming," he remarks. 
 " What a bore ! Perhaps they want to propose 
 an expedition. Something was said at breakfast 
 about Table Rock." 
 
 " I shall not go," says Flora. " I am tired of 
 expeditions for the present. Especially I am 
 tired of making one of a large party. Now, as 
 we went to Conestee — " 
 
 " Ah, Conestee ! " says Charlton, smiling. " I 
 shall never forget it. Not even the beautiful 
 falls of the Saluda and Little River have eclipsed 
 the recollection of it." 
 
"LOVE WAS IN TOE NEXT DEGREE." 83 
 
 "Recollection often flatters and magnifies," 
 says Flora, shaking her head, but smiling, too. 
 " You must not go back to Conestee, else you might 
 be disappointed. If one has a pleasant memory, 
 I think it is best not to endanger it by bringing it 
 in contact with reality again." 
 
 " I wonder where you learned such philoso- 
 phy ? " says Charlton. " By all means bring recol- 
 lection as often as possible in contact with reali- 
 ties, and, if they won't stand the test, let them 
 go ! Don't live in a world of shadows. It is the 
 worst thing that can befall any one." 
 
 " You talk of letting memories go, as if, in 
 that case, one would not have to let a great deal 
 of one's self go with them," says Flora, almost 
 resentfully. 
 
 " Even in that case it is best for them to go. 
 They are not healthy food," Charlton answers. 
 
 She shrugs her shoulders lightly, and, without 
 answering otherwise, takes her straw hat, which 
 lies beside her, and begins to tie it on. " Those 
 voices are coming nearer," she says, " and I don't 
 think I am in the mood for society. You said 
 the other day that you would like to see the view 
 from the other side of the mountain — the side 
 overlooking Jones's Gap. Should you like to go 
 now ? " 
 
 " Very much, indeed," he replies, rising with 
 alacrity. 
 
 " You must walk a mile — a very long mile." 
 
84 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 " Do you think I shall mind that, if you do 
 not ? " 
 
 " Your ankle may suffer, however." 
 
 " My ankle is ahnost entirely well. It only 
 gives a twinge now and then, and I am sure it is 
 quite equal to your long mile." 
 
 " Then we will go." 
 
 She rises — or at least attempts to do so. But 
 her dress is caught by a stone, she turns to release 
 it, and her foot slips. In another instant she 
 might have gone over the precipice, down to a 
 death too awful to contemplate, if Charlton's arm 
 had not encircled and drawn her back. It is only 
 an instant — but an instant that he never forgets. 
 Some moments contain within themselves the 
 principle of eternity. This is one of them. Her 
 slight figure clinging to him, her soft hair blow- 
 ing across his lips — these things thrill him sud- 
 denly with a consciousness which is like a revela- 
 tion. It is new and yet old, familiar and yet 
 unknown before. Man of the world as he is, and 
 well trained in self-control, he cannot utter a 
 word. It is Flora who, drawing away, speaks. 
 
 "Thank you very much. That was exceed- 
 ingly awkward of me, and one cannot afford to 
 be awkward on such a pinnacle as this." 
 
 " You came very near falling into the chasm," 
 he says, a little hoarsely. 
 
 She turns her head, and looking down into the 
 chasm, shudders. " If I had," she says, " how 
 
"LOVE WAS IN THE NEXT DEGREE." 85 
 
 terrible it would have been — for me and also for 
 you ! I should have been killed, and you would 
 have been haunted by the horror of having wit- 
 nessed such a thing. I am glad you caught me.'* 
 
 Then, without saying anything more, they 
 turn and scramble back over the rocks to the top 
 of the mountain. Skirting around the large bowl- 
 ders which cover the Head, they avoid the party 
 gathered there, but do not avoid certain scraps of 
 their conversation. 
 
 "Floy and Mr. Charlton ought to be here 
 somewhere," says Minnie's voice. 
 
 " Perhaps they are down in the cave, engaged 
 in the amusement for which it is famous," sug- 
 gests Mr. Brandon. 
 
 " Do you mean flirting ? " inquires a lively 
 young lady. " I should not suspect either of them 
 of knowing anji;hing about such an amusement." 
 
 " They don't ! " says Minnie, a little indig- 
 nantly. " At least, I know nothing about Mr. 
 Charlton — only I should think he was too old for 
 anything of that kind — but I do know that Floy 
 never flirted in her life." 
 
 " It is never too late to begin, my dear," says 
 the young lady, with a laugh. 
 
 " They certainly seem uncommonly partial to 
 each other's society," remarks Mr. Brandon. 
 
 The two involuntary listeners, who thus ex- 
 emplify the old proverb by hearing no good of 
 themselves, look at each other as they pass out of 
 
86 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 the sound of the voices. Charlton is doubtful 
 what Flora may think, but she only smiles. 
 
 " How do you fancy the imputation of being 
 too old to flirt?" she asks. "You must excuse 
 Minnie. In the eyes of fifteen, thirty-five is the 
 border of middle life." 
 
 " She is quite right," says Charlton ; " I am 
 too old to flirt — too old in mind if not in years. 
 In my youngest days, however, I was not partial 
 to the amusement. I had always a sense of austere, 
 and no doubt uncharitable, contempt for men who 
 make it the business of their lives. But then I 
 was never a society man, and so, perhaps, I could 
 not estimate their temptations. When I was young 
 society did not recognize me. Of late it has been 
 graciously pleased to acknowledge my existence, 
 after a certain patronizing fashion, but I cannot 
 say that its favors have been very gratefully re- 
 ceived. Hence I am like yourself — I never flirted 
 in my- life. We stand on that much common 
 ground, at all events." 
 
 " Why are you sure that I never flirted ? Min- 
 nie does not know." 
 
 " I know. There is fitness in all things." 
 
 " But not consistency in all characters." 
 
 "No, not at all — only in some. But where 
 are we going ? Yonder is the hotel, and I thought 
 we were to see the view from — or is it over ? — 
 Jones's Gap ! " 
 
 " We turn by the spring. Are you thirsty ? 
 
"LOVE WAS IN THE NEXT DEGREE." 87 
 
 The water here is so cool that it tempts one to 
 drink merely for the sake of drinking." 
 
 They approach the spring, which is very large, 
 limpid, and beautiful. "There is nothing but 
 this out of which to drink," says Flora, taking 
 up a huntsman's horn which is lying near, left by 
 some thirsty and forgetful hunter. 
 
 She kneels down on the gray rocks — a graceful, 
 unconscious figure, over which the flickering 
 shadows fall. All things fresh and Arcadian 
 seem to meet in her. To Charlton she appears 
 like an incarnation of the sylvan sweetness which 
 surrounds him. It is the Flora of mythology who 
 is kneeling there, with Diana's horn in her hand 
 — fair, tender, wild, the music of the streams in 
 her voice, the blueness of the skies in her eyes. 
 Are his eyes enchanted? It may be ; but some- 
 times such enchantment is not only better, but 
 also wiser, than all the wisdom of earth. 
 
 After he has drunk from the horn, which she 
 holds to him full of liquid crystal, they leave the 
 spring behind and enter the forest. There is a 
 road for some distance, then a path, and finally 
 merely a trail which eyes inexperienced in wood- 
 craft would not observe. Flora sees and follows 
 it without difliculty. Charlton loiters by her side 
 — for they do not overheat themselves by fast 
 walking — and thinks that he has never before 
 been so near the perfection of existence. Their 
 way is level, for this is the summit of the moun- 
 
88 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 tain over which they are passing, and the forest 
 around them is as still and green as if no human 
 presence had ever entered it. 
 
 " It looks as if it was enchanted, does it not ? " 
 says Flora. " Everything is so wild and beauti- 
 ful ! " 
 
 "It is a wonderful country," says Charlton, 
 " and you are wonderfully devoted to it." 
 
 " Of course I am," she says. " How could I 
 be anything else ? Would not you be devoted to 
 it if it were your native country ? " ■ 
 
 " I think I might become so — if I staid here 
 long enough — even without that advantage," he 
 replies. 
 
 " I have never been out of it but once," says 
 Flora. " Then I was sent away — down to the low 
 country — to school, and thought I should die of 
 homesickness. I pined for the great blue hills till 
 they were forced to bring me back. Of course I 
 should not be so foolish now. I should try to 
 content myself wherever I was forced to live. 
 But my heart — ah, I know that it would always 
 *flee as a bird to the mountains.' " 
 
 " It is a very tender and constant heart," says 
 Charlton. 
 
 Talking in this way, they proceed in their walk. 
 It ends after a time as all things do — even the 
 long and loosely-reckoned miles which are a pecu- 
 liarity of this country. The two pedestrians sud- 
 denly emerge out of the shadow of the woods 
 
"LOVE WAS IN THE NEXT DEGREE." 89 
 
 and find themselves on the verge of the moun- 
 tain. It slopes down on a precipice almost as 
 abrupt as that on the other side ; ]>ut here the 
 wonderful forest covers every rood of ground, 
 and the eye rests on that sea of green, melting 
 gradually into blue, to which the traveler in these 
 virgin solitudes soon grows accustomed. 
 
 Flora advances to the edge of the precipice, 
 and, passing one arm around a tree, sinks down 
 on its moss-covered roots. " Look ! " she says to 
 her companion. " Is it not grand ? " 
 
 Certainly it is. Far below lies the narrow 
 pass, extending miles in length ; on each side of 
 where they stand, the mountains stretch away to 
 dim distance. The grandeur, the silence, the 
 wildness of the scene is beyond all expression. 
 The glory of towering heights, the shifting l)eau- 
 ty of lights and shades and tints, the lucid sky, 
 the floating clouds, the great presence of absolute 
 solitude — there are no w^ords in which to speak 
 fitly of these things. 
 
 There is a long silence before Charlton speaks. 
 Then he says : " I am glad that you brought me 
 here. This is the most impressive view that I 
 have seen yet, and altogether iridike any other. 
 What superb heights ! and how we are girt by 
 them ! " 
 
 " They are magnificent," says Flora, gazing at 
 them lovingly. " But do you not feel in such 
 
90 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 scenes as if you conld not admire sufficiently all 
 that there is to admire ? " 
 
 " Yes ; every one is conscious of such a feel- 
 ing, I suppose. It springs from the poverty of 
 our emotions. More is given than we can appre- 
 ciate or enjoy, even with our utmost effort." 
 
 "But why is it so?" 
 
 " Ah, who can tell ? It is the same old note 
 of disappointment which enters into every chord 
 of human pleasure. One grows to expect it after 
 a while. Nothing is perfect. We are vexed 
 either by the poverty or the aspiration of our 
 souls." 
 
 " Perhaps it is as well," says Flora. " No doubt 
 it is good for us to possess the unsatisfied ideals 
 that vex us. There must of necessity always be 
 some things which we ' cannot compass in our 
 speech ' — nor in our lives." 
 
 "That sounds a trifle obscure. I am afraid 
 you are inclined to be mystical," he says, turning 
 his glance from the mountains to her face. 
 
 She laughs as her eyes meet his. " What will 
 you tell me next ? " she asks. " A short time ago 
 I was inclined to be morbid — and now mystical. 
 WTiat an odd — and not particularly admu-able — 
 patchwork my character seems to be ! " 
 
 " You know better than that," he says. " It 
 is not your character which is in fault ; it is I who 
 blundered in reading it, who indeed have lost the 
 power of reading it. And I wonder " — here he 
 
"SWEET IS TRUE LOVE." 91 
 
 pauses for a moment — " if you know why I have 
 lost it." 
 
 " No," she answers, simply. " I should think 
 that if you chose to read it, nothing would be 
 easier than for you to do so." 
 
 "Nothing probably would be easier," he says, 
 quietly, " if I did not love you." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 IX VAIN. 
 
 SWEET IS TRUE LOVE, TIIOUGU GIVEN IN VAIN, 
 
 5) 
 
 After this declaration there follows a minute 
 of silence. Flora is so much astonished, so thor- 
 oughly disconcerted, that she almost doubts the 
 evidence of her ears. It cannot be that Charlton 
 has really said that he loves her ! She must have 
 misunderstood, have made a mistake. The blood 
 which rushed to her face subsides, the sense of 
 confusion leaves her ; she turns and looks at her 
 companion. 
 
 " I do not understand," she says. 
 
 Charlton on his part is perfectly quiet and 
 cool. He had no intention of making such a con- 
 fession two minutes before he did make it, but he 
 has no idea of receding from it now that it has 
 been made. Though he has never had very much 
 to do with women, he is one of the least shy of 
 
92 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 men, and his self-command in all emergencies is a 
 proverb with his friends. The hazel eyes meet 
 the blue ones steadily. He smiles. 
 
 " Shall I make you understand ? " he says. " I 
 wonder if it is worth while. Rather — I know it 
 is not w^orth while so far as I am concerned, and 
 perhaps you wonder why I do not shrink from 
 useless pain and mortification. But then, luckily, 
 self-love has never been with me a very trouble- 
 some sentiment. Few men would tell a woman 
 whom they know to be thoroughly indifferent to 
 them that they loved her. Their vanity would be 
 naturally averse to that which is called a 'rejec- 
 tion.' But my vanity does not trouble me on 
 such a score. In fact, I am not foolish enough to 
 make any proposal which you would be forced to 
 reject. I simply tell you, as something which 
 concerns and may probably interest you a little, 
 that I have learned to love you." 
 
 " But — why tell me ? " asks Flora. She is so 
 much surprised that the question rises involuntari- 
 ly to her lips. 
 
 " I scarcely know why I have told you," Charl- 
 ton answers, " unless it be that it is an impulse to 
 tell you the truth. It seems the natural and 
 straightforward thing to do. You are so simple, 
 so direct, yourself. Therefore I am sure you will 
 hear me reasonably and kindly. It may be a mis- 
 fortune, it is certainly not a fault, to love you." 
 
 " A fault ! " repeats Flora. "It is certainly 
 
"SWEET IS TRUE LOVE." 93 
 
 not a fault," she says, very gently, "but it may 
 be — do you not think ? — a mistake. Why should 
 you love me ? You know very little of me, and 
 that little is commonplace in the extreme. I could 
 never have imagined that you would care for me 
 — you who have seen so much of the world." 
 
 " It is impossible for me to explain why I care 
 for you," says Charlton. " Who can analyze 
 love? As you say, I have seen a great deal of 
 the world, and I have come in contact with many 
 women — some of them beautiful, a few of them 
 clever. But I never met any woman before who 
 was to me so sympathetic as yourself. My idea 
 has been that, when a woman entered a man's life, 
 she entered it to disturb it ; and, valuing above 
 everything the calm necessary for the intellectual 
 life, I have consequently avoided women. But, 
 wherever you are, there is serenity. You are al- 
 ways harmonious, you are gentle, you are tender, 
 and yet you are strong. Do I vex you by speak- 
 ing in this manner ? " (as she shrinks a little and 
 a flush comes to her face). "I did not mean to 
 do so. I thought we might discuss the matter 
 quietly, but if it troubles you — " 
 
 "It does not trouble me," says Flora, more 
 and more surprised, "but I am sorry that you 
 overrate me so much. I cannot understand it. 
 Why should you have conceived such an idea of 
 me V " 
 
 " Why, indeed, if it is uot a true one ? I have 
 
94 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 been studying you attentively and dispassionately 
 for weeks ; why should I have imagined you to 
 be all of these things if you are none of them ? 
 Nothing in my life has ever surprised me more 
 than to find myself in love with you. The knowl- 
 edge has come to me very gradually. I did not 
 grasp it — or at least I did not realize it in its com- 
 pleteness — until an hour ago." 
 
 *' In that case," says Flora, " what has come so 
 quickly may pass as soon." 
 
 "You misunderstand me if you think it has 
 come quickly. So far from that, I could go back 
 to our first meeting and trace its steady growth 
 to the present time. But such a retrospection 
 would not interest you. One must be moderate 
 even in egotism. I am not presumptuous enough 
 to fancy that you give me a thought beyond kind- 
 ly friendship now. But may I try to win some- 
 thing more from you — in time ? " 
 
 If he does not speak eagerly and passionately 
 — as Flora has perhaps imagined that lovers al- 
 ways speak — there is at least no room to doubt 
 that he is in earnest. As she hesitates — not know- 
 ing in what words to frame her reply — ^he goes on : 
 
 " Don't mistake me — don't think that I desire 
 any pledge of encouragement. I only ask leave 
 to try to win your heart. Probably I shall fail — 
 I have a suspicion that Xature did not fit me to 
 win a woman's fancy — but I should like to try. 
 May I do so ? " 
 
"SWEET IS TRUE LOVE." 95 
 
 Over the last words his voice falls. It is gen- 
 tle — it is almost beseeching. Flora is inexpressi- 
 bly touched. All this to /«er/ It seems incredi- 
 ble. AVhat glamour has come over Charlton's 
 sight ? 
 
 " Why do you think of me in this way ? " she 
 asks. " You must forgive me if I say that it is 
 ver)-- foolish. I am not what you imagine — not at 
 all. As for this which you bestow on me, it is a 
 very great gift — nothing on earth is more great 
 or precious ; but I am sorry, very sorry, that you 
 give it to me. You should keep it for some one- 
 else, who could value it and make it the crowning 
 jewel of her life." 
 
 " I would rather give it to you for a plaything 
 — if you have no other use for it," says Charlton, 
 "ifobody is ever likely to value or make it a 
 cro^vning jewel, I fear. Don't look grieved ! 
 There is no reason why you should. If I have a 
 mind to give you something for which I expect 
 no return, whose affair is it but my own ? I shall 
 be sorry that I said anything about it if you let it 
 annoy you in any way." 
 
 " You must think me very selfish if you im- 
 agine that I could possibly not be grieved," says 
 Flora, with a cadence of indignation in her voice. 
 " I have liked you so much, and now — " 
 
 " I hope you don't mean to stop liking me ? " 
 he says, smiling. " Why should you be distressed 
 by what is no fault of yours? Why should you 
 
96 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 change in your feeling toward me, or let a cloud 
 come between us ? I have told you frankly what 
 I feel toward you, but this binds you to nothing. 
 You are only asked to receive — not to give. In 
 time, perhaps — " 
 
 But here she inteiTupts him. " I must not let 
 you count on what can never be," she says. 
 " Time can work no change. As I like you now, 
 I shall like you always ; but I can never love 
 you." 
 
 " Are you sure of that ? " says Charlton. He 
 asks the question with a wistf ulness which touches 
 her afresh. He is startled by the positive form of 
 her declaration. She is not a woman to talk at 
 random, he knows. In love a man continually 
 advances from one discovery to another: Charlton 
 at this moment discovers how much he hoped. 
 
 " I am sure of it," she answers. Her eyes turn 
 away from his face to the steadfast mountains. 
 She looks at the outlines of their splendid crests 
 with a shadow of doubt and trouble in her glance. 
 Charlton feels it, and speaks with what she feels 
 to be great gentleness. " I cannot tell you how 
 sorry I am to have pained you in this manner. 
 Do not think of it any more. Let us fancy that 
 we have been amusing ourselves with the rehear- 
 sal of a little comedy, and now we will go back to 
 our pleasant friendship. I have only one thing to 
 ask — don't let my folly bring any constraint be- 
 tween us. I shall not forgive myself if it does. 
 
"SWEET IS TRUE LOVE." 97 
 
 You cannot tell how much I value your kindness 
 — and I shall not misinterpret it." 
 
 " It is you who arc kind — very kind ! " cries 
 the girl. Then she turns to him suddenly. Iler 
 eyes expand, a glow of resolution conies into her 
 lace. " I can make only one return for all that 
 you give me," she says ; " but that return I loill 
 make. I can tell you more than I have told any 
 one else — about myself." 
 
 " Not unless you are sure that you will not re- 
 gret having done so," says Charlton, quickly. 
 " You can tell me nothing of yourself that will not 
 interest me, nothing I shall not be glad to hear ; 
 but you must not do so from any mistaken idea 
 of owing me an explanation. There is not the 
 least necessity for anything of that kind." 
 
 " I think there is," says Flora. " Am I to 
 make no return for all that you give me ? You 
 say that you only ask me to receive ; but surely 
 that is an ungracious role, to receive so much, 
 and make not even an acknowledtnnent. I would 
 rather tell you everything ; but you must promise 
 not to repeat it." 
 
 " Is it possible you think that 1 could — " 
 
 " No, I don't think you could ; but still I will 
 feel more safe if you promise." 
 
 " I do promise, then, to hold all that you may 
 
 choose to tell me absolutely sacred ; but I beg 
 
 you again not to tell me anything that you are 
 
 likely to regret afterward. At all events, don't 
 
 7 
 
98 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 speak hastily. Wait till to-morrow. In the 
 mean time think a little — will you not ? — of what 
 I have said. I put myself in your hands. I am 
 your friend or your lover, as you choose. All 
 that I ask is permission to try and win your heart. 
 I hope — I think — that I might make you happy if 
 you could learn to love me ; and I am sure that 
 you would make me much more than happy." 
 
 " You cannot tell," says Flora. " I am not 
 half that you think me. You would soon find 
 that out. But, nevertheless, I must thank you 
 for thinking so well of me," she adds. 
 
 " Never mind thanking me for that," he says. 
 " Perhaps I would not think so well of you if I 
 could help it." 
 
 At this Flora smiles, as he intended that she 
 should. And then they rise. The idea occurs 
 to both of them that it is time to start homeward. 
 So they bid adieu to the solemn beauty of the 
 great pass, the unchanging grandeur of the moun- 
 tains, dappled softly with cloud-shadows, and 
 turn away. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " LOVE THE GIFT IS LOVE THE DEBT." 
 
 The evenings at Caesar's Head are very pleas- 
 ant. After sunset the air grows so chilly that 
 fires are often necessary for comfort ; and no one 
 
"LOVE THE GIFT IS LOVE THE DEBT." 99 
 
 can deny their cheerful, picturesque effect. Vis- 
 itors are coming and going constantly. This 
 evening the house is crowded to its utmost capa- 
 city. A party of tourists from Asheville arrive in 
 time to see the sunset from the Head, and talk of 
 it rapturously at supper. They are so full of en- 
 thusiasm, so overflowing with admiration of the 
 country through which they have passed, that the 
 mountaineers present incline to them kindly, and 
 volunteer a great deal of information. Mr. Bran- 
 don advises them strongly to go to the Balsam 
 Mountains. " I took a strav artist who had wan- 
 dered to this region up there last summer," he 
 says, " and I thought the fellow would lose his 
 senses. * Great Heaven ! ' he exclaimed — only he 
 was more emphatic — * that such a paradise should 
 be unknown ! ' " 
 
 " This is your country, then ? — you live here ? " 
 says a dark-eyed young lady — with something of 
 French vivacity in her manner — turning to him. 
 
 " Yes, it is my country, and I wouldn't ex- 
 change it for any other in the world ! " returns 
 the young Carolinian, proudly. " When it comes 
 to be known, it will be such a resort for America 
 as Switzerland is for P]urope." 
 
 One of the gentlemen of the party is mean- 
 while talking to Colonel TyiTcll. " Wq came by 
 Flat Rock," he says, " but we have been advised 
 to return through Transylvania, lliere is said to 
 be some beautiful scenery in that country." 
 
100 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 " We must not fail to see the valley of the 
 French Broad," says the yonng lady, turning 
 round. " If I am not mistaken, that charming 
 Mr. Sunderland, who advised us to come here, 
 said that he used to live there." 
 
 There is a minute's silence ; then Colonel Tyr- 
 rell says, " If you mean my nephew, Harry Sun- 
 derland, he certainly used to live there." 
 
 " Of course I mean Harry Sunderland," says 
 the young lady. " Is he your nephew ? How 
 glad I am to meet you ! I have heard him talk so 
 often of his uncle who lives on the French Broad ! 
 Are you that uncle ? How delightful ! I am 
 Miss Dupont, from New Orleans. We came up 
 to Asheville from the Warm Springs. Gertrude 
 Preston is my most intimate friend. Your nephew 
 is engaged to her, is he not ? " 
 
 " If so, I am not aware of the fact," says 
 Colonel Tyrrell, a little stiffly. 
 
 " Suppose we retreat ? " says Charlton in a 
 low voice to Flora. 
 
 She assents, and they quietly leave the table ; 
 not so quietly but that Miss Dupont's dark eyes 
 f olloAV them. " Ciel ! " she says, " what a sweet 
 face that girl has 1 Your daughter. Colonel Tyi'- 
 rell ? Oh ! I beg pardon ; but pray introduce 
 me." 
 
 This introduction does not take place very 
 soon. When Miss Dupont and her party leave 
 the supper-room, Flora is not to be found. Charl- 
 
"LOVE THE GIFT IS LOVE THE DEBT." IQl 
 
 ton has also disappeared, as Mr. Brandon remarks. 
 " AVhat do you tliink, noio f " he says to Minnie. 
 " It is either a case of flirtation, or something very 
 serious. Take care that you don't lose your sis- 
 ter ; though, by Jove ! it will be too bad if she 
 throw herself away on that fellow ! I always 
 thought she would marry Sunderland, or I should 
 have asked her to marry rue long ago." 
 
 *' She wouldn't have dreamed of doing it," 
 says Minnie, uncivilly. " As for Harry, I don't 
 know what Miss Dupont means by talking of his 
 being engaged to anybody. We should certainly 
 have heard of it, if he was." 
 
 " That might not follow," says Mr. Brandon. 
 " But I'll go and find out all about it." 
 
 Meanwhile, when Charlton says to Flora, 
 "Come out and avoid those people. Let us go 
 over to the knoll and see the moon rise," she 
 wraps a shawl around her, and they go out to the 
 knoll in front of the house, whence they look 
 eastward. In daylight the view is beautiful. The 
 blue plain stretches away southward and west- 
 ward, but in the east and north mountains on 
 mountains rise, cloud-girt, azure-robed, melting 
 into lovely distance. 
 
 Just now all the landscape is veiled in obscu- 
 rity, except that along the crests of the far heights 
 there is an alabaster glow which shows that the 
 moon is behind them. " She will soon be here," 
 says Charlton ; and they sit down to wait for her 
 
102 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 coming. She does not long delay. First the edge 
 of her disk appears ; then by degrees the whole 
 silver shield rises into the cloudless hyacinth sky. 
 The world is bathed in mystic beauty ; dark out- 
 lines and silvery mist make up the scene, but 
 nothing could be fairer. 
 
 "I remember that we saw this same moon 
 when she was a mere thread of silver," says Charl- 
 ton. " Do you remember ? It was down on the 
 river bank one evening." 
 
 "Yes, I remember," answers Flora. "You 
 asked me — or I asked you — about Harry. How- 
 ever it was, we talked of him. I knew then 
 that he was in love, but I did not suspect that 
 he would be engaged without telling his old 
 friends." 
 
 "I do not believe that he is engaged," says 
 Charlton. " He certainly was not when I saw or 
 when I heard from him last. Gossip generally 
 outstrips fact. Don't trouble yourself about it. 
 If it is true he will certainly tell you." 
 
 " But there is no doubt that he is in love with 
 Miss Preston, I suppose ? " 
 
 "He fancies that he is," says Charlton, who 
 has no very high opinion of Harry's stability. 
 
 " What is she like ? " asks Flora. " You have 
 never said anything about her, and Harry has mere- 
 ly mentioned her name." 
 
 " I never saw her but once — at a concert with 
 Sunderland. She is a handsome brunette, with a 
 
"LOVE THE GIFT IS LOVE TIIE DEBT." 103 
 
 marked air of style, but no great degree of intel- 
 lect in her face." 
 
 There is silence for a few minutes ; then Flora 
 says in a low voice : " Do not be vexed with me if 
 I tell you now, instead of to-morrow, what I sj^oke 
 of this morning. I have thought it all over, and 
 it is best. You say that you only ask permission 
 to try and win my heart. But I must make you 
 understand that I should be wrong if I gave you 
 this peiTuission ; and I can only make you under- 
 stand this by telling you frankly that I gave my 
 heart away long ago, before I ever saw you." 
 
 Charlton's own heart gives a great throb, and 
 then seems to stand still for a moment. " I feared 
 it ! " he says to himself. Somehow he knows that 
 he has felt a foreboding of this all along. 
 
 Flora goes on quickly— ^perhaps she does not 
 wish any reply. " No one was to blame," she says, 
 " and I do not think that any one suffered except 
 myself ; and one's own pain does not matter. 
 That can be borne easily enough. But to cause 
 pain to others — it seems to me that I should never 
 forgive myself if I did that knowingly, or even 
 carelessly. It was not Harry's fault — I never 
 thought so for a moment — " 
 
 " Harry ! " says Charlton. He is thunder- 
 struck. "Do you mean," he says, breathlessly, 
 " that it is Sunderland for whom you care ? Good 
 Heavens ! what have I — " 
 
 " Done ? " he would have added, but stops him- 
 
104 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 self in time. Even in the midst of his surprise 
 and bewilderment, he feels instinctively that he 
 must not let her suspect in what manner Sunder- 
 land has spoken of her to him, nor what a mission 
 was laid on him when he came to Transylvania. 
 
 The half darkness conceals the blush which 
 rises to Flora's face ; yet she speaks bravely. 
 
 " Yes, it is Harry. I learned to care for him 
 so long ago — or I never learned, it seemed to be a 
 natural instinct with me — that I do not think I 
 shall ever be able to put it away from me. At least 
 I shall never be able to care for any one else in the 
 same manner." 
 
 " But on that evening of which I spoke a min- 
 ute ago, you told me that Sunderland was not 
 your lover," says Charlton. 
 
 " He never was,"'she answers, simply, " but I 
 thought at one time that he might be. It was 
 natural ; I cannot blame myself. He was very 
 fond of me, and I was too young to draw distinc- 
 tions. I was never so happy as here on this 
 mountain two years ago ; but he went away — and 
 never came back. So it was all a mistake." 
 
 The proud, tender voice ends abruptly, and 
 silence falls. For what can Charlton say ? Can 
 he tell her that it was not a mistake, and that 
 Sunderland, nevertheless, has forgotten her ? He 
 feels that such a revelation can serve no good 
 purpose. What has he done ? Might he have 
 brought happiness to this constant heart, and has 
 
"LOVE THE GIFT IS LOVE THE DEBT." 105 
 
 he ignorantly and presumptuously turned it away ? 
 Is it too late even yet ? As if she read his thoughts, 
 Flora speaks. 
 
 " That is all," she says. " I have given you 
 confession for confession, and we will never speak 
 of the subject again. I am very, very sorry that 
 you should care for me, but I hope it will prove a 
 fancy which will soon pass away. In order that 
 it may do so, I have told you what no one else 
 ever heard from me." 
 
 " I shall never forget your kindness or your 
 confidence," he says in a low voice. " If I could 
 serve your happiness in any way, believe me I 
 should not think of myself." 
 
 " But you cannot ! " she says, quickly. " Re- 
 member, you have given me your faith. You can 
 never repeat to any one what I have told you." 
 
 " I could cut out my heart sooner than repeat 
 one word of it," he says — so earnestly that her 
 fears are set at rest. "But you are mistaken 
 when you talk of my love for you being a fancy 
 that may soon pass away. It is a passion which 
 will endure. But there is no reason why you 
 should be sorry for this. I am not. It is no 
 little thinsc to love a woman who is worth remem- 
 bering. And then I have your friendship. That 
 is very much." 
 
 " I am glad you think so," says Flora. She is 
 much relieved by this quietude. It is something 
 new in her experience of love affairs, but more 
 
106 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 agreeable than any amount of passion or pleading. 
 Silence falls again. They hear the wind sighing 
 softly among the trees at their feet ; for the forest 
 here, as everywhere, clothes the precipitous moun- 
 tain. From the hotel behind, gay tones and 
 laughter float out on the night. Life is full of 
 such contrasts. As two voices suddenly rise in 
 song, Charlton says : " Don't let me keep you any 
 longer. The night-air is very chilly." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "some theee be that shadows kiss." 
 
 After he has parted with Flora at the door of 
 the hotel, Charlton takes his way to the Head, 
 lighting a cigar as he goes. He has much to con- 
 sider, and he feels that he can best command his 
 thoughts in the unbroken solitude of Nature. He 
 finds the point altogether deserted. The brilliant 
 moonlight brings out boldly every escarpment of 
 the cliff, and near its verge he throws himself care- 
 lessly down. Lying there with the pure fresh air 
 around him, the hyacinth heaven above, and the 
 vague, far-reaching world, flooded with silver mist, 
 below, he gives himself up to reflections which are 
 by no means pleasant. 
 
 Not reflections on his own failure. This is 
 
"SOME THERE BE THAT SHADOWS KISS." 107 
 
 something which he puts aside, with the calmness 
 of one to whom Hfe has brought many disappoint- 
 ments. People grow accustomed to all things — 
 even to failure — after a while, and Charlton's ex- 
 perience is rather more of failure than success. 
 Once before he had set his heart on a woman, and 
 she gave him much the same answer which Flora 
 has given to-night — an answer less gentle but not 
 less decided. In many ways and at many different 
 times he has learned that to him do not fall the 
 prizes reserved for the curled darlings of fortune. 
 This, therefore, is only another example of that 
 fact. He accepts it, and turns his attention to the 
 other aspect of the matter — that which concerns 
 Flora. 
 
 lie sees now the error into which he has led 
 Sunderland, but he does not perceive with any- 
 thing like equal clearness how this error is to be 
 corrected, or what possible good can result from 
 its correction. Flora has learned from others 
 besides himself — has been warned, indeed, by 
 her own instinct — of Sunderland's inconstancy. 
 Would she be likely, under these circumstances, 
 to accept the latter if he were to offer himself ? 
 Charlton feels that he knows enough of her char- 
 acter to answer this question in the negative. But 
 if in the first instance he had read more correctly 
 the riddle which he was set to solve, would mat- 
 ters have been different then ? Perhaps — only 
 perhaps — so. Sunderland might have relinquished 
 
108 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 his suit with Miss Preston and returned to Tran- 
 sylvania ; but Charlton is very doubtful. 
 
 " At all events, I am glad that I did not know 
 the truth when I ^vi'ote to him ! " he mutters. 
 And with this decision jealousy has little or 
 nothing to do. lie feels keenly how deeply Flora 
 would have been wronged if a sense of honor 
 alone had brought her cousin back to her. His 
 blood stirs hotly at the mere imagination of such 
 a thing. If he had not grown to love her — if she 
 was merely to him the graceful, tender girl who 
 had pleased his taste and awakened his interest 
 when they first met — ^he would still regard this as 
 a desecration. JVow he feels that he could sooner 
 leap over the verge on which he stands than suffer 
 Sunderland to suspect what place he carelessly 
 won in the loyal heart that has not learned the 
 lesson of facile forgetting. 
 
 So much for the past. With regard to the 
 future, he marks out a programme for himself 
 very decidedly and clearly. He will trouble Flora 
 by no further allusion to the confession so untow- 
 ardly made to-day ; and he will shorten his stay 
 in Transylvania as much as possible, so that in a 
 few weeks at furthest he can turn his back on 
 Arcadia, leaving forever behind the fair pastoral 
 region in which for a little while he has forgotten 
 the roar and strife of the world beyond these 
 blue mountains. 
 
 While he reflects in this manner, and Flora, 
 
"SOME THERE BE THAT SHADOWS KISS." 109 
 
 sitting at her chamber window, watches with half- 
 absent eyes the great sea of silver mist stretching 
 away to infinite distance, Miss Dnpont is engaged 
 in writ in 2: a letter to her friend iMiss Preston. 
 After relating how she chances to be in the moun- 
 tains of Western Carolina, she touches lightly on 
 the attractions of Caesar's Head, and finally sums 
 up in this manner : 
 
 " Fancy whom I have just had the pleasure of 
 meeting ! No other persons than the uncle and 
 cousin of your admirer and sj^ecial subject, Harry 
 Sunderland. The uncle is the ordinary old gentle- 
 man ; the cousin is lovely, in a fair gentle style 
 that has no chic or sparkle in it, but is attractive, 
 nevertheless. Mr. Charlton, the writer, is here in 
 her train, and seems to engross all her attention. 
 A communicative young gentleman who was intro- 
 duced to me this evening — Brandon, I think, by 
 name — told me that Mr. Charlton's devotion is 
 most marked^ and that Miss Tyrrell seems to 
 respond to it very kindly. I should like to make 
 the acquaintance of a man who writes essays ; but 
 after having spent some time with 3Iiss Tyrrell 
 watching the moon rise, he brought her back to 
 the hotel and strolled oft" alone — unal)lej I suppose, 
 to endure any other society after hers. Probably 
 I shall see him to-mon-ow and be able to tell in 
 what degree an essayist is like other people." 
 
 Much more than this the letter contains — 
 especially some inquiries into Miss Preston's rcla- 
 
110 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 tions with the aforesaid Harry Sunderland — but 
 the above extract is all that need be given to the 
 public. After the ej^istle is finished, signed, sealed, 
 and directed, Miss Dupont calmly consigns her- 
 self to her couch and sleeps the sleep of innocence. 
 
 The next morning this young lady has an op- 
 portunity to learn how much an essayist is like 
 other people. Charlton is presented to her, and 
 does not make a very pleasant impression. He is 
 never discourteous, but on occasions he can be 
 distinctly disagreeable. This is one of the occa- 
 sions, for few things interest him less than the 
 empty chatter of a society woman. He escapes 
 as soon as possible, pleading an engagement to 
 join a hunting party who are going down to Buck 
 Forest in search of deer. 
 
 Later in the day the Dupont party leave Cae- 
 sar's Head. Colonel Tyrrell regrets courteously 
 that he is not at home, so that he might entertain 
 them. "We can at least look at your place in 
 passing," says Adele, graciously. " I have heard 
 Mr. Sunderland talk so often of its beautiful 
 situation." 
 
 "You must do more than look at it in pass- 
 ing," said Flora. "You must go in and see the 
 view of the vallev from the front." 
 
 " We should enjoy it more if you were there 
 to point out all its beauties to us," says one of the 
 gentlemen, gallantly. 
 
 But it is doubtful whether Flora is soiTy that 
 
"SOME THERE BE THAT SHADOWS KISS." HI 
 
 slie will not be there. Miss Dupont and herself own 
 little in common ; and there is something in the 
 fact that the former belongs to that world which 
 has separated Sunderland so widely from his old 
 friends that makes Flora, despite her utmost ef- 
 forts to the contrary, regard her with a sentiment 
 approaching to dislike. She is vexed with herself 
 for feeling in this manner ; but to feel differently 
 is quite out of her power. It is a relief when the 
 last compliments are exchanged, the Dupont party 
 gone, and she is at liberty to take a book and go 
 out on the rocks. 
 
 She finds without difficulty a nook where she 
 is not likely to be disturbed — a craggy point of 
 the great precipice, like that on which she was en- 
 throned the day before, with Charlton lying at 
 her feet. The immense expanse of the wide and 
 beautiful prospect seems to sink on the spirit with 
 a charm which can never be forijotten. Yet at 
 present she is scarcely conscious of it in any ac- 
 tive sense. Her mind is full of other thouirhts. 
 Her hands are lightly folded over the book in her 
 lap ; her eyes gaze at the remote limit of the 
 scene, where land and skv l)lend in ocean-like 
 mist ; her lips are closed with a tense expression, 
 significant of pain. She is 
 
 " . . . . telling her memories over 
 As you tell your beads," 
 
 and not gathering a great deal of profit or pleas- 
 ure therefrom. 
 
112 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 How well she remembers those summer days 
 two years ago, which she spent here with Sunder- 
 land ! — how every sight and sound recalls his 
 frank, handsome face ! She can almost fancy 
 that all the lapse of intermediate time is a dream, 
 and that she will start suddenly to hear his voice 
 ringing over the mountain-side in the hunters' 
 chorus from "Der Freischiitz," which he liked 
 so much and sang so well. Yet she knoAVS that 
 the pleasant music of that voice is far away — 
 sounding, perhaps, under the tamarac trees of dis- 
 tant Canada, or on the blue waters of the great 
 lakes. The green Carolina heights, the semi- 
 tropical magnificence of the wild Carolina for- 
 ests, have not heard its cadence in many days ; 
 and the tender, pathetic eyes, sweeping wistfully 
 the verge of the horizon, look in vain for the 
 presence that comes not. 
 
 But Flora's thoughts are not altogether, nor 
 chiefly, retrospective. Do what she will, Charl- 
 ton's words sound in her ears, and she finds her- 
 self questioning constantly whether she was right 
 or wrong in answering them as she did last night. 
 Need she have told to this stranger the secret of 
 her heart — the secret which even to herself she 
 scarcely ever put in words before ? She could 
 not tell another person, she can scarcely intelligi- 
 bly set before herself why she did so. In truth 
 an overmastering sense of the hardness and cru- 
 elty of life came to her — a sudden sad realization 
 
"SOME THERE BE THAT SHADOWS KISS." 113 
 
 of how many precious tilings are wasted, love for 
 which no one cares, faith that is betrayed, hope 
 that sickens unto slow death. Her own misplaced 
 affection was nothing — so she would have said ; 
 but for Charlton to set his heart on her and suffer 
 through her — that seemed more than she could 
 bear ! Most women would not have thought it 
 necessary to say more than simply, " I do not love 
 you," but the impulse of candor made Flora add 
 why she did not love. 
 
 Xow, thinking it all over, she cannot be sorry 
 that she yielded to that impulse. To feel that 
 one's feet are planted on the truth is always — in 
 little or great affairs — a sustaining consciousness. 
 Let the worst come, we can face it fairly then, 
 with unstained rectitude and conscience at rest. 
 There is no room for misapprehension, for doubt, 
 for self-rej^roach, when all mists of concealment 
 have been swept away. " lie has given me a great 
 deal," Flora says to herself, thinking of Charlton. 
 " The truth is none too much to give him in re- 
 turn." Besides this, she has an intuitive con- 
 sciousness that the man to whom she spoke that 
 truth can be trusted to the uttermost extremity. 
 He makes no pretensions whatever, he is the last 
 person in the world to profess that he would go 
 to the stake sooner than betray a trust deliber- 
 ately given to him, but nevertheless she feels that 
 this is so. Under his quiet manner she has read 
 his character with perfect accuracy. She knows 
 8 
 
114 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 that her secret is safe ; and in the first glance of 
 his eyes, the first tones of his voice when they met 
 this morning, she saw that her friend was still her 
 friend — that he spoke truly when he said that he 
 had little of that vanity which makes most men 
 resent as a grievous insult, as well as a grievous 
 wrong, such an answer as she had given. 
 
 It is late in the afternoon of the next day be- 
 fore the hunting party return. They are flushed 
 with success, and bear its spoils. Charlton brings 
 to Flora a pair of antlers taken from the head of 
 a stag. " It was the first deer I have been lucky 
 enough to get a shot at," he says. "I wish you 
 could have seen him as he paused for a moment 
 opposite my stand ! I almost hated to pull the 
 trigger. What an excellent thing callousness is, 
 is it not?" 
 
 " I am not sure of that," says Flora. " It 
 would spare us some pain, no doubt ; but would 
 you not rather suffer more pain than to care as 
 little for the pain of others as some people do ? " 
 
 "But there is a kind of sentimentality that 
 one falls into if one is not careful. Stags, for in- 
 stance, were made to be shot ; yet I felt almost 
 like a murderer when that creature leaped up with 
 his death- wound." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " says Flora, smiling, yet laying 
 her hand gently on the branching antlers. " These 
 shall be hung in the hall at home," she goes on. 
 "Thank you for bringing them to me." 
 
"SOME THERE BE THAT SHADOWS KISS." 115 
 
 " I wisli it was the tuft of feathers from the 
 breast of the golden eagle, which is valued so 
 highly in the Tyrol," 'he answers. "Then you 
 might wear it in your hat as a souvenir of a sum- 
 mer which I shall mark with white in the history 
 of my life. It might serve to remind you of me 
 after I am gone." 
 
 " I shall not need anything to remind me of 
 you," she says, lifting her eyes frankly. " I never 
 forget a friend. We, too, will mark with white 
 the pleasant summer days you have spent with 
 us." 
 
 " How I shall think of you in the winter," he 
 says, quickly, " and try to picture the valley and 
 the mountains covered with snow and wrapped in 
 mist ! I entertain serious fears, indeed, that my 
 life for some time to come will be set to the re- 
 frain of ' My heart's in the Highlands wherever I 
 go.'" 
 
 " Then you must come back to the Highlands 
 as soon as possible," says Flora ; and she does not 
 consider how little this is likely, till her com- 
 panion's silence, and a subtile shade falling over 
 his face, tells her so. 
 
 The next day they bid adieu to Ca?sar's Head, 
 look their last on the beauty of its fair prospect, 
 feel for the last time the breeze which seems to 
 come from no nearer distance than the curl in g: 
 waves of the vast Atlantic, drink to their return 
 in the clear, sparkling water of the Cold Spring, 
 
116 A SUMMER IDYL, 
 
 shake hands for the last time with their genial 
 host, and turn their horses' heads toward the Tran- 
 sylvania valley. • 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ''westward ho!" 
 
 Never did this fairest of all valleys seem more 
 beautiful than as they saw its pastoral loveliness 
 spread before them in the westering light and long 
 shadows of late afternoon, its frame of graceful 
 mountains wearing their purest tints in the trans- 
 parent atmosphere, and the bright river winding 
 through the green breadths of its fertile lowlands. 
 
 " After all, we have seen nothing so beautiful 
 as this ! " says Charlton, turning to Flora. " It 
 would be impossible for the soft and the bold to 
 be mingled more admirably than they are mingled 
 here. Absolutely the scene is so perfect that 
 there is nothing left to desire." 
 
 "Z think so," replies Flora, with a tender light 
 in her eyes, " but I have always feared that I Avas 
 partial through affection. Yet many other people 
 have said that the Transylvania valley is the 
 loveliest in the mountains." 
 
 " I am sure it must be," says Charlton ; " but 
 I mean to improve my knowledge of other valleys, 
 and so be able to speak with more authority. Did I 
 tell you that I am pledged to go with Mr. Bran- 
 
"WESTWARD nO!" 117 
 
 don to the west — through all the conntry over 
 which we have journeyed on the map ? " 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Charlton," cries Minnie, before Flora 
 can speak, " is it possible you are really going to 
 leave us and go so far as that ? " 
 
 " I am desolated, as a Frenchman would say, 
 at the thought of leaving you," says Charlton, 
 smiling ; " but I am also glad of an opportunity 
 to make the tour under the conduct of such a com- 
 petent guide as I am sure Mr. Brandon will prove." 
 
 " I, too, am sorry to lose you even for a time," 
 says Flora, " but I am glad that you are going. 
 I want you to see as much as possible of the coun- 
 try. Then some time, perhaps, you may write a 
 story of your travels that will tell people how 
 beautiful it is." 
 
 " I am afraid I shall not be able to do that," 
 he answers. " The country has won my heart so 
 completely that I should scarcely know how to at- 
 tempt describing it. A man cannot paint when a 
 glamour is over his eyes." 
 
 He wonders, while he speaks, if it is this gla- 
 mour which makes the valley into which they 
 have now fairly descended seem so lovely to him. 
 Tlie crystal river, with many a swirl and rapid, 
 Hows swiftly by under its vine-draped trees, hast- 
 ening from its far birthplace among the peaks of 
 the great Balsam, and gathering strength with 
 every mile, to thunder a little later through its 
 splendid gorge down to Tennessee. On each side 
 
118 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 stretch the cultivated lands bearing their rich har- 
 vest. Over the wide fields of rustling corn the 
 sunlight rests like a mantle of gold, and streams 
 in serene glory on the eastern hills, while deep 
 shadows steal over the land from the western 
 heights. There is a fragrance of sweetbrier and 
 clematis on the air. Freshness and repose are in 
 every sight and sound. It is like an enchanted 
 land into which pain and care might never enter. 
 
 When they reach home they are welcomed vo- 
 ciferously by all the household. The airy house 
 seems to receive them kindly. " It is worth while 
 going away if only to come back," says Minnie. 
 Charlton feels the charm of return as strongly as 
 any one — perhaps, indeed, more strongly, since to 
 the others this is their home from which, in the 
 natural course of events, they need fear no exile, 
 while to him it is only a place of brief sojourn, 
 which he must soon leave behind, probably never 
 to see again. He cannot restrain a slight sigh as 
 he enters the pleasant chamber that has grown to 
 have so familiar an aspect to his eyes. Just now 
 the sunset radiance is filling it with light ; the net- 
 work of shade outside the windows is shot with 
 gold ; the river is murmuring below ; soft green 
 hills are scarce a stone's-throw away ; westward 
 the violet peaks stand, height upon height and 
 range behind range, against a sky ablaze with 
 glory. 
 
 " And I must leave it all ! The sooner the 
 
"WESTWARD nO!" 119 
 
 better," he thinks. " What a fool I have been to 
 suffer myself to take root so deeply ! As if a life 
 could be all a summer holiday, or as if such a 
 haven of Arcadia is likely to be found more than 
 once in one's journey through it ! " 
 
 The charm of Arcadia is soon to be broken in 
 more ways than one. Charlton discovers this at 
 the tea-table, when Colonel Tyrrell tells his daugh- 
 ter that he has found amonc: his letters one from 
 an old friend, saying that he will be in Brevard 
 the next day with a large party. " We must go 
 over and bring them here," that hospitable gen- 
 tleman goes on. "The ladies may stay several 
 days. They talk of remaining in Transylvania 
 while the gentlemen of the party "go west to Hay- 
 wood and Jackson." 
 
 " I hope the ladies are not very formidable," 
 says Flora. "If they are like Miss Dupont, I 
 don't know how they can be amused." 
 
 "Take 'em in the woods, Floy, and have a 
 g}7)sy supper," suggests Nellie, to whom this is 
 the 7ie plus ultra of enjoyment. 
 
 After tea. Flora is sent to the piano by her 
 father. Contrarv to his usual habit, Charlton fol- 
 lows her into the room, and draws a chair near 
 the instrument. He does not say so, but he feels 
 that this is a farewell to the idyllic life he has 
 been leading. To-morrow evening those people 
 who are coming will be here ; the next evening 
 he will be gone, and when he returns it will only 
 
120 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 be to say farewell and go — not to return. Hence 
 he declines to-night to join the smokers on the 
 piazza, and, sitting in the half -shaded room, lis- 
 tens, with a sense of mingled pain and pleasure, 
 to the sweet voice that sings the plaintive Irish 
 melodies Colonel Tyrrell chiefly likes. 
 
 After this they go out on the lawn — for the 
 summer night is full of fresh, cool sweetness — 
 and while the river sings its mystical refrain to 
 the silent earth, and the dew brings out innumer- 
 able odors that are never perceived by day, they 
 talk and watch the moon rise in silvery majesty 
 over the eastern hills. 
 
 Charlton has himself well in hand, and Flora 
 does not suspect that under his self-control a fire 
 is burning which would startle her if she knew of 
 its existence. He knows it, and, conscious that 
 every hour of this association is to be paid for — 
 and paid heavily — in future pain, he is in a meas- 
 ure anxious to end it. " The calm necessary for 
 the intellectual life " had, as he said himself, al- 
 ways seemed to him the most desirable thing in 
 existence ; and he is perfectly aware that, if he 
 tarries here much longer, that calm will be hope- 
 lessly gone, to be recovered — who can say when ? 
 
 Reasonably, therefore, he should not be sorry 
 when it is time to say good-night ; yet, to Flora's 
 surprise, he does not content himself with the 
 simple salutation, but takes her hand and holds it 
 for a moment. 
 
"WESTWARD HO!" 121 
 
 *' This is the end," he says, " of all our pleas- 
 ant evenings. I am very sorry, and yet you must 
 let me thank you for them. I can never forget 
 all your kindness. I shall remember it as long 
 as I remember you — and how long that will be, 
 God only knows. I fear I shall never forget 
 you." 
 
 He certainly did not mean to say anything 
 like this when he began to speak ; but the tongue 
 is at best an unruly member, and just now it has 
 spoken out of the fullness of his heart. Flora 
 does not di'aw away her hand ; she only looks at 
 him with something very gentle and pathetic in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " Why do you talk of this being our last even- 
 ing ? " she asks, ignoring the latter part of his 
 speech. " You are going away, it is true, but you 
 will come back, and we shall be as good friends 
 as ever, shall we not ? You will not forsake us, 
 you will not go away, Mr. Charlton, because — be- 
 cause I have been unfortunate enough to give you 
 a little pain ? " 
 
 It is difficult to express the sweetness and en- 
 treaty in these last words. The delicate face is 
 lifted, the frank eyes meet his with no shadow of 
 self-consciousness in their depths. She knows the 
 world so little, she does not for a moment imagine 
 that she should not ask the man whom she has re- 
 jected to stay on the familiar footing of a friend. 
 But Charlton does not misinterpret her. He is 
 
122 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 aware that no impulse of coquetry, no tcfidresse 
 for himself, prompted those simple, kindly words. 
 It was out of the fullness of her heart also that 
 Flora sj^oke. 
 
 " I shall come back — yes," he answers ; " but 
 it will be only to say good-by. You must not 
 blame yourself for my departure. I am not churl- 
 ish enough, nor rich enough in such gifts, to re- 
 fuse your friendship because 1 cannot win your 
 love. On the contrary, I prize it very highly — 
 more highly than you can imagine. But my holi- 
 day is nearly ended. I must go — I should go in 
 any event. I shall never forget my summer in 
 Transylvania, however, and you are right in think- 
 ing that we shall always be very good friends." 
 
 The courage with w^hich he bears himself, the 
 determination to spare her any possible self-re- 
 proach, touches Flora. " You are very kind," she 
 says, in a low voice. " I shall never forget how 
 kind — how considerate." 
 
 " Floy, are you still on the piazza ? " says Colo- 
 nel Tyrrell's voice in the hall. " You had better 
 come in, my dear. It is growing late." 
 
 "Yes, papa," answers Flora. "Good-night," 
 she says to Charlton ; and, with his clasp still 
 lingering on her hand, she passes into the hall, 
 kisses her father, and goes up-stau's. 
 
 The next day the party of tourists are brought 
 by Colonel Tyrrell and Flora from Brevard, and 
 the day after that a party of gentlemen, of whom 
 
"WESTWARD 110 !" 123 
 
 Charlton is one, take their departure for tlie re- 
 mote west. 
 
 To follow their line of march, and record all 
 the adventures, hardships, and pleasures which till 
 the next six days, would require the pen of Defoe 
 at least, and Avould iill a volume in itself. At the 
 end of that time the majority of the party return, 
 unaccompanied by Charlton or George. Their 
 absence is explained by the two following epistles: 
 
 "Franklin, September 10th. 
 " My Dear Colonel Tyrrell : Taking ad- 
 vantage of the kind permission you gave me at 
 parting to keep Bayard as long as I like, I have 
 decided to accompany Brandon still farther. To- 
 morrow we start for Cherokee. It is difficult — 
 indeed impossible — to give any idea of the wild 
 magnificence of the scenery here ; but you may 
 tell Miss Tyrrell that I have seen nothing which 
 charms me so much as Transylvania. The valley 
 of the iSTantahala is beautiful, and the gorge of 
 the same unspeakably grand ; but man has done 
 much to spoil it, while man has only adorned 
 Transylvania. I cannot tell when I shall return 
 — probably not for ten days. With warmest re- 
 gards to all the household, believe me 
 " Most truly yours, 
 
 " Geoffrey Charlton." 
 
 Epistle No, 2 was indited at the same time 
 and from the same place : 
 
124 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 " Dear Papa : We got here last night, tired 
 out, I can tell you. "We've had splendid luck in 
 hunting, though, and I like roughing it first-rate. 
 I shouldn't mind being a hunter all the time, ex- 
 cept in winter. We've had some of the moun- 
 taineers with us all the time, and such tales as 
 they tell ! — you never heard the like ! Tell 
 Oscar to tell Tom Fanshaw when he sees him 
 that he'll he sorry to the last day of his life he 
 didn't come on this trip, and that when I get back 
 I'll open his eyes for him with some of the tough- 
 est bear-stories he ever heard. 
 
 "Mr. Charlton isn't going back with the 
 others. Since I came with him, I suppose of 
 course you'll wish me to go on with him. The 
 horses hold out first-rate, and we haven't had but 
 one rainy day since we started. Then we were 
 out on the mountains, and it soaked us through. 
 
 " Brandon says he can't tell exactly when we 
 can get back — it depends on the roads and the 
 horses, and a hundred other things. There's no 
 use in waiting when the mails are so uncertain ; 
 so you may expect us when you see us. Love to 
 everybody, and tell Floy this isn't half so pretty 
 a country as ours. 
 
 " Your affectionate son, 
 
 " George Tyrrell." 
 
 " That scamp knew perfectly well that he 
 ought to have come back," says Colonel Tyrrell, 
 
"WESTWARD HO!" 125 
 
 handing this characteristic missive to his daugh- 
 ter, whose eye has by tliis time traveled to the 
 end of the page tilled Avith Charlton's clear black 
 writing. " But there's a good deal of sagacity in 
 his pretending to take for granted that what he 
 wanted to do was the proper thing to do." 
 
 " Perhaps he honestly thought that he ought 
 to remain Avith Mr. Charlton," says Flora, smiling. 
 *•" It is quite true that he went with him." 
 
 " What a thing it is to be a boy ! " says Min- 
 nie, enviously. " How I wish I was in George's 
 place ! " 
 
 The day after the return of the hunters the 
 party of visitors leave, and then blankness and 
 dullness settle heavily on the Tyi-rell household. 
 There is no mode of escaping or throwing off the 
 sense of ennui which envelops them like a cloud. 
 Minnie is bored to the point of desperation, and 
 makes the air resound with her lamentations and 
 regrets — lamentations that she must live in Tran- 
 sylvania, regrets that she is not a boy instead of 
 " a horrid stupid girl." 
 
 " I was not aware before that vou had such a 
 good idea of your own character," says her father, 
 overhearing the last remark. 
 
 Even Flora feels that life at present lacks 
 some zest. " How soon one can become demoral- 
 ized ! " she says. " It seems scarcely worth while 
 to have cakes and ale when their loss leaves such 
 a flatness behind them." 
 
126 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 There are other cakes and ale in store for the 
 Tyi'rells at this moment, however — little as they 
 suspect it. Several days have dragged their slow 
 course by, and Minnie rises each morning, saying, 
 " I wonder if Mr. Charlton and George will come 
 to-day ! " Instead of Charlton and George, there 
 comes a letter from Sunderland, addressed to 
 Colonel Tyrrell, and this is what it contains : 
 
 "KiCHMOND, Septeniber \Zth. 
 
 " My Dear Uncle : You will probably think 
 me very much a will-o'-the-wisp when you glance 
 at the top of this page, since my last letter to 
 Flora was written from the lakes. We left there 
 almost immediately after that epistle was dis- 
 patched, and traveled down through the Western 
 cities to the mountains of Virginia. There I left 
 the Prestons, and came here yesterday. Constant 
 travel has slightly knocked me up, and I am lying 
 over a day or two in order to rest and see some 
 old friends. Then I shall come on directly to 
 Transylvania. You would scarcely believe it, 
 perhaps — I have been such a thorough prodigal — 
 but I am homesick for a glimpse of its blue hills. 
 Tell Flora so, with my dearest love. I suppose, 
 from what I hear, that I shall still find Charlton 
 with you. I hope my coming won't prove incon- 
 venient. If you can stow me away in a corner, I 
 will excuse the killing of a fatted calf. 
 " Yours, with affection, 
 
 "Henry Sunderland." 
 
"HOW SHOULD I GREET THEE?" 127 
 
 The rejoicing which takes place on receipt of 
 this intelligence is tumultuous. " Harry is com- 
 ing ! " cry Minnie, Oscar, and Nellie, in chorus. 
 The news is carried to the servants, whose sable 
 faces glow with delight. Let his faults be what 
 they may, Sunderland is one of Nature's princes 
 — generous-hearted, open-handed, winning love 
 and fealty from high and low. Only Flora looks 
 a little disturbed and pale, and Colonel Tyrrell 
 tries ineffectually to mask his pleasure by saying : 
 
 "What does the boy mean by ^Titing non- 
 sense about hoping his coming will not prove in- 
 convenient ? Does he think such a thing likely ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " HOW SHOULD I GREET THEE ? " 
 
 SuxDERLAND is comiug ! This is to Flora 
 something so unexpected as to be almost over- 
 whelming. Two months ago she would have re- 
 ceived such an announcement as the best thing 
 that could possibly be heard ; but in the interval 
 things have changed so much with her — she her- 
 self has seemed to change so much — that it is 
 now confusing in the extreme, and, if she were 
 honest with herself, she might a<ld unwelcome. 
 
 But she is not honest with herself. She will 
 
128 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 not admit for an instant that Harry's appearance 
 could possibly be unwelcome to her. She tries, 
 indeed, to assure herself that she is, that she must 
 be, glad that he is coming. Yet she knows in her 
 heart that she is not glad, and she knows why 
 she is not glad. Two months ago she longed to 
 see him, because her trust in him had not been 
 shaken — or, if shaken, it had not been shattered. 
 The certainty of his love, in which for a time she 
 had rested content, had been disturbed by vague 
 fears and doubts, but these fears and doubts only 
 made her long the more for the presence that 
 would end them. Since that time everything 
 has been altered. She has learned beyond doubt 
 that he loves, she has even heard it confidently 
 asserted that he is engaged to, another woman. 
 For herself, she has been forced by these things 
 to face the secret of her own heart, and she has 
 even gone so far as to acknowledge that secret to 
 Charlton. And now Harry is coming — Harry, 
 whom she almost feels as if she could fly to the 
 ends of the earth to avoid ! He is coming, and 
 she must meet him ; she must be in all things ex- 
 actly what she was of old ; she must receive his 
 confidences, and let him suspect nothing. 
 
 Meanwhile Sunderland makes no long tarrying 
 — at Richmond or elsewhere — but follows his let- 
 ter with rapidity, and arrives in Transylvania the 
 second day after it. His reception almost amounts 
 to an ovation. His prolonged absence, his care- 
 
"HOW SHOULD I GREET THEE?" 129 
 
 lessness, his faults of all kinds, are forgotten. 
 He has come. That is enough for his loyal sub- 
 jects. 
 
 It is enough, at least, for Colonel Tyrrell, for 
 JNIinnie and Oscar and Nellie. Even Flora finds 
 her strife of thought — her painful doubt and 
 hesitation — partially swept away and forgotten. 
 Sunderland is so entirely the HaiTy whom they 
 all remember, the world has changed him so lit- 
 tle, that the strange constraint with which w^e 
 often face, after long absence, a once familiar 
 friend, and feel that time has dug a gulf of 
 change between us, is impossible with him. It 
 has already been said that, with all her gentleness, 
 Flora is not weak. She has braced herself for 
 this meeting, and there is no betraying flush on 
 her cheek, and no betraying tremor in her voice — 
 only the old frank gladness in her eyes, the old 
 frank affection in her tone. 
 
 " Harry, dear Harry, how good of you to 
 come ! — how glad I am to see you a^-ain ! " she 
 says, when she finds both her hands in the eager 
 clasp of his. 
 
 " Good of me to come ! " repeats Harry, with 
 a laugh. " It is very good of yoxi^ Floy, to put 
 the matter in that light. You don't know how 
 glad I am to be back ! There is no place in the 
 world so dear to me as this — and none so pretty." 
 
 " Listen, papa, how he is trying to flatter us ! " 
 
 " Flatter you ! " says Sunderland. " I should 
 9 
 
130 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 as soon think of trying to paint the lily or gild 
 refined gold." 
 
 Indeed, there can be no doubt that the young 
 man is sincerely glad to be again among the fa- 
 miliar scenes of his boyhood. His is a nature 
 volatile and impressionable in the extreme — a fact 
 which constitutes half the secret of his popularity. 
 He is so honest — for the moment — in the pleasant 
 sentiments which he expresses, that people feel 
 this honesty (as a mere sham never can be felt), 
 and yield at once to its charm. Men who are 
 very strong in their individuality rarely win so 
 much personal regard as those who, like Sunder- 
 land, are quick to receive impressions and equally 
 facile in losing them ; to whom the moment is 
 all-sufficient, and the interest of the moment su- 
 preme ; who accommodate themselves to others, 
 and swim lightly on the current of events. 
 
 So, for a little time. Flora's uncertainty is set 
 at rest. She listens to Harry's gay voice telling 
 all the wonderful things that have befallen him, 
 and is almost inclined to ask herself if she is 
 awake or dreaming. Is it " Yesterday come back, 
 with its old things, and not To-day ? " They are 
 gathered in the familiar sitting-room, with the 
 murmur of the river coming in on the soft breeze 
 that stirs the green leaves outside the windows 
 and the curtains within. Harry's handsome face 
 is before her ; she hears the ring of pleasure in 
 her father's voice as he asks question after ques- 
 
"HOW SHOULD I GREET THEE?" 131 
 
 tion. Is it because she has changed, that these 
 things, which hare not changed, strike her with a 
 sense of incongruity ? She is so little accustomed 
 to self-analysis, that the question puzzles her, and 
 while she is debating it Harry is saying : 
 
 " You have all altered wonderfully little. 
 Minnie has become a young lady — or something 
 very near one — and Oscar and Nellie are two or 
 three sizes larger, but that is all. No doubt 
 George is almost a man. And, by-the-by, what 
 have you done with Charlton ? When I came 
 in, something was said about his having * gone 
 west.' AVhat does that mean — Cherokee or Cali- 
 fornia?" 
 
 " Cherokee in this instance," answers his un- 
 cle. " George has gone with him, and Brandon 
 — you remember Frank Brandon ? " 
 
 " I should think so indeed." 
 
 " They left here with a large party ; but, in- 
 stead of returning with them, went on to Chero- 
 kee — and elsewhere. Mr. Charlton is anxious to 
 acquire as much information as possible about the 
 country." 
 
 " He must like it. lie has been here nearly 
 two months, hasn't he ? " 
 
 "He came the last of July," says Minnie, 
 " and this is the middle of September. Yes — it's 
 nearly two months. Floy, should you think it 
 had been so long ? " 
 
 " We have found him a very agreeable per- 
 
132 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 son," says Colonel Tyrrell, " and we are much 
 obliged to you for introducing him, Harry." 
 
 " He's a capital fellow in his way," replies 
 Harry, " and I thought it likely his way might 
 suit you better than it would some other people. 
 You have certainly suited lihn^ or he would never 
 have staid so long. What has been the princi- 
 pal attraction ? " 
 
 He looks at Flora as he speaks, and Flora an- 
 swers with a smile : " You have been so long out 
 of Transylvania that you don't remember how 
 many attractions it has. After you have renewed 
 your acquaintance with them, you may not be so 
 much surprised that Mr. Charlton has lingered." 
 
 *' Do you think I am surprised ? On the con- 
 trary, I know that Charlton has good taste ; and 
 nobody with good taste could fail to like Transyl- 
 vania. If you think I have forgotten a single 
 one of its attractions, I will prove to you that 
 you are mistaken." 
 
 " Harry, we've got two of the prettiest colts 
 you ever saw," cries Oscar. " Don't you want to 
 come and look at 'em ? " 
 
 " Not just now," answers Harry. " We'll 
 stroll out after dinner while I smoke a cigar." 
 
 After dinner they stroll out. Colonel Tyrrell 
 accompanying them, and Sunderland shows such 
 lively interest in, and recollection of, everything 
 about the place, whether animate or inanimate, 
 that the elder gentleman's heart warms. 
 
"HOW SHOULD I GREET THEE?" 133 
 
 Having made the tour of the home premises, 
 he suggests that they take horses and go out on 
 the plantation. But this Sunderland declines. 
 " Another afternoon I shall like nothing better," 
 he says, " but to-day you must excuse me. I 
 have scarcely seen Flora yet, and I am anxious to 
 renew our acquaintance." 
 
 So it happens that, half an hour later, the door 
 of Flora's chamber opens, and a curled, shining 
 head appears in the aperture. It is the head of 
 Nellie, and it is Nellie's voice that speaks. 
 
 " Floy," she cries, " Harry says will you take 
 a walk or a ride ? He says whichever you please 
 will suit him — and the horses are in the stable." 
 
 " Are they ? " says Flora. " Tell Harry, then, 
 I will ride with him at five o'clock." 
 
 She sighs a little after the eager messenger 
 has departed. Of course this is one of the things 
 to be expected — one of the things which she must 
 necessarily endure — but, nevertheless, she shrinks 
 from it. No sense of indignation occurs to her, 
 as it might to another woman. She does not say 
 to herself that Sunderland might have remained 
 at Miss Preston's feet, and not come back to 
 amuse himself again with playing at cousinly 
 love. On the contrary, she thinks that it is she, 
 and she only, who mistook that cousinly love for 
 anything deeper. No doubt Sunderland has come 
 to tell them of his engagement, and he treats her 
 now as he treated her always — like a favorite sis- 
 ter. 
 
134 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 At five o'clock she comes down in her habit, 
 to find the horses before the door, and Sunderland 
 idling in the hall. 
 
 " May I say how charming you look ? " he 
 says, coming up to her. " I always thought a 
 habit the most becoming dress a woman could 
 wear, and you are so graceful, so dainty. By 
 Jove ! how is it a man can ever be blind enough 
 to admire an Amazon ? " 
 
 " I thought you admired Amazons very much," 
 says Flora. 
 
 " One has fits of abnormal bad taste occa- 
 sionally, but it would not be just to hold one 
 accountable for them." 
 
 " Perhaps not," she answers, with gentle sar- 
 casm, "if it were possible to discover what are 
 your normal tastes." 
 
 " You think me so fickle ? " 
 
 " In some things — yes. But they are not 
 very essential things," she says, looking up with 
 a sudden, sweet smile. " I should never think of 
 doubting your constancy where important mat- 
 ters are concerned." 
 
 " I must make you define what are important 
 matters, before I can accept that in the light of 
 an aniende^'^ he says, gayly. 
 
 Then they go out to the horses and mount. 
 " How like old times this is ! " says Sunderland, 
 as they ride across the bridge. " But I suppose 
 they scarcely seem old times to you. I have al- 
 
''HOW SHOULD I GREET TIIEE ? " 135 
 
 ways observed that when time passes monotonous- 
 ly it also passes quickly." 
 
 " I don't know," answers Flora. " In some 
 points of view it seems a long time since you 
 were here last. Because life is quiet, it does not 
 follow that it is monotonous." 
 
 " But life with you is full of regular occu- 
 pation, and nothing heljis the flight of time 
 more than tJiat. While I — ah ! how long it 
 seems since I rode by your side along this lovely 
 valley ! Was it always so pretty ? It seems to 
 me it has grown more beautiful since I went 
 away." 
 
 " It has not changed in the least," answers 
 Flora. *' How could it ? " As she speaks, her 
 eyes are tenderly limpid. Let what will have 
 come between them, Harry is Harry still. The 
 breath of the world may have passed over him, 
 but his heart is still loyal to the friends and the 
 scenes of his youth. This thought sets her more 
 at ease than she has felt yet. She looks at him 
 with a smile. " How could it ? " she says. " But 
 I am glad that you have not changed, Harry — I 
 mean I am glad that you can still find something 
 to admire here." 
 
 " Something to admire ! " says Harry. " By 
 Jove ! I find everything to admire. I have seen 
 nothing so charming since I went away. And 
 you seem to suit it so well. Flora. What a fool I 
 have been to stay away so long ! " 
 
136 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 " I won't quarrel with that sentiment, since it 
 has brought you back at last," says Flora. 
 
 Talkmg in this manner, they follow a road 
 which skirts the great cornfields and leads them 
 into the woods. O wild and beautiful forests, 
 what words can describe your glory when the 
 serene splendor of September has come upon you 
 like a benediction ? Some one has said very truly 
 that " we admire the beauty of other lands, we 
 feel that of our own ; " and all in a moment, as 
 it were, Sunderland realizes this. To his inmost 
 heart he feels the chord of nativity thrill. He is 
 no stranger here. There is scarcely a ravine 
 among these hills, or a path over them, which he 
 does not know as Rob Roy knew his native heath. 
 
 " What a fool I have been ! " he says again 
 with emphasis. " Floy, I wonder if you forgive 
 me for my folly ? I am half inclined to think 
 you don't. You are gentle and sweet and cordial, 
 but not what you used to be." 
 
 Flora does not blush at this. Some things are 
 too deep for blushing. She only looks at him 
 with her frank blue eyes, and answers quietly : " If 
 I don't remember all that I used to be, Harry, 
 you should not blame me. Two years make a 
 chasm in one's life. But you must not think I 
 have anything to forgive with regard to your 
 having staid. Why should I have ? I felt all 
 the time — and told papa — that it was very natu- 
 ral." 
 
"HOW SHOULD I GREET THEE?" 137 
 
 *' That was kind of you ; but if you had want- 
 ed to see me, perhaps you would not have been so 
 reasonable." 
 
 " Perhaps not," says Flora. She smiles a lit- 
 tle — a smile he does not comprehend. " Whether I 
 wanted to see you or not," she goes on, " I am glad 
 that you are here, and that ought to satisfy you." 
 
 " It ought, certainly ; but I suppose I am un- 
 reasonable. I should like you to make the assur- 
 ance a little warmer — if you could conveniently 
 do so." 
 
 *' I am afraid you have been badly spoiled. I 
 shall not think of making it warmer. Here we 
 are on the top of the hill. See ! This used to be 
 one of your favorite views." 
 
 It is a charming view, and Sunderland admires 
 it as much as his companion could possibly desire. 
 " Broad extended, far beneath," lies the fertile 
 valley — an Arcadia of peaceful loveliness — with 
 its swellinfij backorround of wooded hills and azure 
 peaks. 
 
 " I have seen nothing like it since I went away," 
 says Sunderland — " nothing so wild, so beautiful, 
 so fresh ! Floy, I am half -minded never to go 
 away again." 
 
 Flora laughs — a low, sad little laugh, though 
 Sunderland's ear is not quick enough to catch its 
 sadness. "You will think differently a month — 
 perhaps even a week — hence," she says, turning 
 her horse's head. 
 
138 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 He turns liis horse also, with a quick, impa- 
 tient movement, and rides up to her side. " Such 
 speeches are not like you," he says, " and I con- 
 sider them very unkind. I must know why you 
 have begun to think so poorly of me — to consider 
 me so hopelessly fickle ? Has Charlton been giv- 
 ing you his idea of my character ? " 
 
 She looks at him with eyes half indignant, 
 half reproachful. " How little you know me, 
 Harry ! " she says. " How little you could ever 
 have known me, to ask such a thing! Do you 
 think I would listen while any one — any one 
 in the world — spoke ill of you ? But I have not 
 been tried, for IMi*. Charlton has never said any- 
 thing that was not good. I am sure that he is 
 one of your best friends." 
 
 After this they converse amicably enough for 
 some time, as they ride along with low red sun- 
 shine streaming through the brown boles of the 
 trees, and their shadows stretching gigantically in 
 front. They pause on the crest of a hill to watch 
 the sun go down in glory — dipping behind the 
 distant mountains, and leaving islands and conti- 
 nents of purest amethyst in a sea of dazzling gold, 
 while over the sky above light feathery clouds of 
 rose color, soft as an angel's plumage, float. Then 
 they turn their horses' heads homeward, and it is 
 then that Flora musters courage to say : " You 
 have not mentioned Miss Preston yet, Harry. 
 Don't you mean to tell me anything about her ? " 
 
"HOW SHOULD I GREET THEE?" 139 
 
 Harry is surprised, and shows as much by 
 changing color — a sign of confusion into which, 
 "as a man of the world," he dislikes exceedingly 
 to be betrayed. " What do you know about Miss 
 Preston ? " he asks. 
 
 " Nothing very much," she answers. " Only 
 that you are said to be engaged to her ; and when 
 matters reach such a serious point as that, I think 
 your old friends ought to know something 
 of it." 
 
 " How in the name of all that is wonderful 
 did any gossip of that description reach here ? " 
 
 " I met a Miss Dupont at Caesar's Head, who 
 knows Miss Preston very well. She told me that 
 the affair was considered settled." 
 
 " Confound her ! " says Harry, ungallantly. 
 " She is a thorough-paced mischief-maker, and 
 wrote any amount of gossip about you from 
 Cassar's Head." 
 
 " Gossip about me ! " says Flora, amazed. 
 " To whom, pray ? " 
 
 " To Miss Preston, who gave me the benefit 
 of it." 
 
 " But what did she find to say of me ? " 
 
 " Only that Charlton was * most devoted ' — 
 and much more in that order." 
 
 " She must certainly have drawn on her imagi- 
 nation for the devotion," says Flora, quietly, 
 " since to the best of my recollection she did not 
 see me with Mr. Charlton at all." 
 
140 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 " But she was aware that you went out with 
 him to see a moonrise. In short, you were brought 
 in guilty of a flirtation of the deepest dye, and 
 therefore I expect you to be lenient to me when I 
 confess my mild peccadilloes." 
 
 Flora remembers that moonrise — and all that 
 was said then — so well that she cannot restrain a 
 laugh which is compounded of various emotions, 
 and which is more nervous than mirthful. 
 
 " Don't talk more nonsense than you can help, 
 Harry," she says ; " but tell me, are you en- 
 gaged ? " 
 
 " I will be obliging, and answer frankly — I am 
 not. Since it is not the fashion for men to say 
 what is untrue on that subject, I hope you will 
 believe me." 
 
 "Believe you ! I should think so, indeed. 
 But I suppose you icill be engaged — some time." 
 
 " I think it very likely — some time, as you say. 
 But not to Miss Preston." 
 
 " Harry ! " 
 
 " So you don't believe me ! Well, I can't help 
 it. A man can tell no more than the truth, if he 
 is a truthful person." 
 
 They are riding down hill now, and their road 
 leads between high banks, with such dense shade 
 arching overhead that, although the colors of sun- 
 set still burn in the sky, their way is almost in 
 twilight. Flora cannot see her companion's face, 
 to judge whether or not he was in earnest; hence 
 
now SHOULD I GREET THEE?" 141 
 
 there is a strong spice of doubt in lier tone when 
 she answers : 
 
 " I hope you are truthful, but it was not always 
 a virtue of yours. And how can you deny that 
 you are — that you have been — in love with Miss 
 Preston?" 
 
 " Confine your accusations to one tense, sweet 
 cousin. I am not in love with Miss Preston now, 
 whatever I raav have been." 
 
 " And yet — O Harry ! — you say that you are 
 not fickle ! " 
 
 " I do say it, and I mean to prove it — but not 
 just now. Here we are at the foot of the hill; let 
 us have a canter." 
 
 The horses are willing enough, and they sweep 
 at a rapid pace through the rich bottom lands, 
 surrounded by tall, rustling corn, with wafts of 
 f rac:rance from the river-side borne to them on the 
 fresh breeze, and golden stars beginning to gleam 
 faintly in the violet sky above. They reach the 
 bridge, cross it, and, still at a canter, ride up to 
 the door of the house. Then, as Sunderland 
 swings himself to the ground in order to lift his 
 companion from her saddle, Nellie rushes out and 
 2)roclaims at the top of her voice : 
 
 " O Floy, George and Mr. Charlton have 
 come ! " 
 
142 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " IF SHE BE NOT FAIE TO ME." 
 
 "An^C so," says Charlton, calmly, "you are off 
 with the new love, and on with the old — is that 
 it?" 
 
 The time is the day after Charlton's arrival ; 
 the hour is approaching noon ; the place is Colo- 
 nel Tyrrell's la^Ti. The two young men are ly- 
 ing on the warm, dry grass, with flickering shade 
 falling over them. As they glance upward, they 
 see one of the most charming sights in the world 
 — depths of green foliage with sunlight striking 
 through it, and patches of sky showing beyond. 
 On these September days the sky is blue as the 
 heart of a sapphire, and the far mountains look as 
 if they were carved in lapis-lazuli. The river 
 flowing over its rocky bed does no more than fill 
 the silence with a soft, reposeful murmur. Sun- 
 derland, supporting himself on his elbow, looks at 
 his companion, and thinks that he is provokingly 
 calm ; yet if the truth were known, Charlton is 
 not very much in unison with his surroundings. 
 He is angry, disgusted, contemptuous ; but none 
 of these things appear on the surface. He only 
 regards Sunderland through half-closed eyes as he 
 utters the words recorded above. 
 
 "I suppose that is about the sum of it," the 
 
"IF SHE BE NOT FAIR TO ME." I43 
 
 young man answers. " I might do worse than be 
 on with the okl love, however; you've seen enough 
 of Flora to grant that, I'm sure." 
 
 *' I begin to think that you are a consummate 
 young puppy to imagine that you can be on or off 
 with women exactly when you like," says Charl- 
 ton. 
 
 *' You ought to know me better than that," 
 Sunderland replies, flushing, but keeping his tem- 
 per. "Nothing was farther from my thoughts 
 than to imagine that I could be on or off with 
 them as I liked. There's Gertrude Preston — by- 
 the-by, I haven't told you about her yet." 
 
 " No. I imagine, however, that she grew tired 
 of you, or vice versa.^^ 
 
 " It would be putting it more correctly to say 
 that we grew tired of each other. I had been 
 drawTi into offering myself before I received your 
 letter setting my mind at rest about Flora, but of 
 course it was a great relief to me. Gertrude ac- 
 cepted me — I never had much doubt about that — 
 and we were engaged for several weeks. Now," 
 says Mr. Sunderland, with an air of profound re- 
 flection, "it is a very disenchanting kind of thing 
 to be engaged to a woman — almost worse than be- 
 insj married to her. With retjard to marriajxe, 
 there's something in a man's nature which makes 
 him resign himself to the inevitable. But one has 
 no sense of that kind about an cnecairement. You 
 begin to feel grave doubts as to whether or not 
 
144 A SUMMEE IDYL. 
 
 you have acted wisely, and you look at the lady 
 far more coolly and critically than you ever did 
 before. It is unnecessary to remark, perhaps, that 
 not very many women can stand being looked at 
 in that manner. Gertrude certainly could not. 
 Before a fortnight had passed, my most active 
 sensation when with her was a sense of boredom. 
 I supjDose I was not so devoted as I should have 
 been, in consequence. She grew tired of me also. 
 A rich Kentuckian whom we met at the lakes came 
 in opportunely to cut the knot of our difficulty. 
 She flirted with him. I ventured to express dis- 
 approval ; she grew angry. I declined to recede 
 from my position, whereupon she gave me my 
 conge. I retired with a sense of great relief. 
 And there ends the story." 
 
 Vexed as he is, Charlton cannot restrain a 
 smile as he looks at the unruffled face of the 
 speaker. " What a thorough epicurean you are ! " 
 he says. " Do you mean to go through life chas- 
 ing every object that attracts your fancy, and 
 tiring of it as soon as it is in your possession ? " 
 
 " I consider that the fault is in the object or 
 objects, not in me," returns Sunderland, placidly. 
 *^You are mistaken in thinking there is no con- 
 stancy in my nature. I am like a man who left a 
 star to follow an ignis fatuiis. Now I have come 
 back to my star." 
 
 " Meaning your cousin, I presume ? " 
 
 *' Meaning my cousin, of course. You don't 
 
''IF SHE BE NOT FAIR TO ME." I45 
 
 understand women very well, Charlton ; so I 
 think you must have been mistaken when you de- 
 cided that she did not care for me, save ' as a 
 cousin, cousinlv.' I am certain that she cared 
 for me in a different fashion two years ago ; and 
 women like Flora don't change readily." 
 
 " I suppose, then, that you intend to reward 
 her supposed constancy by the offer of your heart 
 and hand — for a week ? " 
 
 " Don't be sarcastic, my dear fellow. If Flora 
 accepts me, you may be sure I shall be constant 
 to he/-:'' 
 
 *' Why should I be sure of it ? You haven't 
 been constant to other women." 
 
 " They were not women who deserved, desired, 
 or expected constancy. But Flora is different. 
 I low gentle yet how true she is ! " says the young 
 man, with his voice softening a little. " By Jove, 
 Charlton, you may laugh if you like, but I have 
 come to my senses at last, and I see now that my 
 best chance in life is here ; and I mean to win it 
 if I can." 
 
 He rises as he speaks and goes away toward 
 the river, leaving Charlton still lying on the grass. 
 " Laugh ! " repeats that gentleman. " * He laughs 
 best who laughs last ; ' and I'm not likely to do 
 that. After all, it may be for the best. She de- 
 serves a better fate, but c/ie sard, sard" 
 
 Fortifying himself with this bit of philosophy, 
 he remains for several minutes in unmolested 
 10 
 
146 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 quiet, until a shadow falls over him ; and, remov- 
 ing his gaze from the depths of green and gold 
 overhead, he finds that Sunderland has returned 
 and is standing by his side. 
 
 " Charlton," he says, in an insinuating tone, 
 " you've been here two months now, and you ought 
 to have learned a good deal about Flora. What do 
 you think of the chances for me ? " 
 
 "Unless I am mistaken," answers Charlton, 
 " you expressed a very poor opinion of my judg- 
 ment with regard to women, a few minutes ago." 
 
 " It may be better than I fancied." 
 
 " Accordingly as it suits you or not. Thanks ; 
 but in the present case I have no opinion to offer." 
 
 " Look here," says Sunderland — and his voice 
 has suddenly become grave — "are you in love 
 with her yourself ? " 
 
 " Do you fancy that, because you are giddy, 
 the world turns round ? " 
 
 " That's no answer at all — and, by Jove ! I be- 
 lieve that you are in love with her ! " 
 
 Charlton deliberately raises himself from the 
 grass, picks up his straw hat, and says, with a 
 sigh : " If you are determined to discuss the sub- 
 ject, you can at least come out of earshot range 
 of the house. There is no saying how much of a 
 nuisance a man in your position may make him- 
 self, but at least he need not be overheard. Let 
 us go down to the river." 
 
 So down the gentle slope of the lawn they 
 
"IF SnE BE NOT FAIR TO ME." 147 
 
 stroll to where the river flows idly by under its 
 drooping shade. 
 
 " Now," says Charlton, as he finds himself 
 with his companion in the same green dell where 
 he sat with Flora one evening and felt sure that 
 she cared nothing for her cousin in the way that 
 cousin imagined, *' you asked me a question a 
 minute ago which you had no right to ask, but 
 which I shall answer nevertheless. You asked if 
 I am in love with your cousin. I answer candidly 
 — yes." 
 
 Sunderland, notwithstanding his suspicions, is 
 so much astonished by this reply, that he does not 
 even say " By Jove ! " but only stares. 
 
 " Are vou in earnest ? " he asks, after a min- 
 ute. " I did not really think that a man of the 
 worhl like you would fall in love with a girl like 
 Flora. I thought you might have flirted, but in 
 love — " 
 
 " Do I look like a man who flirts ? " asks Charl- 
 ton, with contemptuous severity. " And you ought 
 to know Miss Tyrrell better than to associate such 
 an idea with her, when I tell you that I asked her 
 to marry me three weeks ago." 
 
 Harry's familiar expletive comes to his aid 
 now. He says " By Jove ! " with emphasis. 
 
 " I tell you this," Charlton goes on with the 
 utmost coolness, " in order that you may not mis- 
 interpret anything that you may observe in your 
 cousin's manner to me. I also feel that I owe 
 
148 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 you a slight explanation. I came here charged, 
 as you know, with a very difficult and delicate 
 mission. I was commissioned to sound Miss Tyr- 
 rell's heart and let you know how much of a place 
 you had won therein. I performed this task to 
 the best of my ability, and gave you what I hon- 
 estly believed to be the result." 
 
 " Yes," says Harry, " but — you'll excuse me — 
 did not your own desires color that result? In 
 other words, didn't you thiiik what you hoped? " 
 " At that time I hoped nothing. My interest 
 in your cousin was no deeper than friendly ad- 
 miration. When I learned that she was fancy- 
 free, however, my own fancy grew, until it ended 
 as I have told you." 
 
 "And she rejected you?" 
 
 " Yes — very kindly, but decidedly." 
 
 " By Jove ! " remarks Harry once more. 
 
 Then there is silence for several minutes. The 
 
 younger man is amazed by what he has heard, 
 
 and there can be no doubt that Flora rises in his 
 
 opinion by the fact that she has brought to her 
 
 feet the impassive Charlton — and rejected him. 
 
 It is a triumph which Harry appreciates more 
 
 than she was able to do. He knows that since 
 
 the young writer has become noted, more than 
 
 one fashionable woman with d^pencha^it for " clever 
 
 men " has endeavored to throw her toils over him, 
 
 and failed signally. Consequently, Charlton has 
 
 won for himself in certain drawing-rooms the 
 
"IF SHE BE NOT FAIR TO ME." 149 
 
 reputation of a well-bred bear. And this bear 
 Flora has the distinction of having tamed. Sun- 
 derland — like most men — feels justified in his 
 choice when he finds that it is also the choice of 
 another man. He feels sure that Flora could hc.ve 
 had but one reason for rejecting Charlton, and 
 that reason must have been a partiality for him- 
 self. Charlton reads his thoughts and smiles a 
 little. " The comedy will soon be ended," he 
 thinks, "but I shall leave before the closing scene 
 of clasped hands and tender vows." 
 
 Meanwhile there is some important matter 
 afoot in the household this morning — at least as 
 far as the younger members are concerned. Min- 
 nie and the boys seclude themselves in a mysteri- 
 ous manner, while Nellie Hits to and fro witli a 
 face of grave importance. The cause of this 
 transpires at dinner, when every one finds in his 
 or her napkin a three-cornered note. These mis- 
 sives are all alike, and contain the following, in 
 Minnie's large, straggling writing : 
 
 "You are invited to attend a gypsy supper, 
 which will be given this afternoon at Glen Flora, 
 at 5 p. M. punctually." 
 
 There is a general laugh, and Charlton asks 
 where Glen Flora may be situated, and by M'honi 
 it was so felicitously named. 
 
 "By Harry," answers Miss Tyrrell. "It is a 
 
150 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 lovely glen where we used to go for all festivities 
 of tins kind when we were children." 
 
 " And will you all come ? " asks Nellie, anx- 
 iously addressing the company. 
 
 " I, for one, will certainly do myself that 
 honor," answers Charlton. 
 
 Flora, Sunderland, and Mr. Martin, respond to 
 the same effect. Only Colonel Tyrrell excuses 
 himself from attending, and mildly ex2:>resses a 
 hope that he may have some tea at his usual hour, 
 and in his usual manner. 
 
 The earlier hours of the afternoon pass as usual. 
 Flora escapes to the sanctuary of her own chamber 
 — ostensiblj'^ for siesta. Charlton goes to his room 
 and turns the key — ostensibly for writing. Colo- 
 nel Tyrrell lies on the lounge in the hall, and 
 snores virtuously. Sunderland, left to his own 
 devices, wanders about aimlessly, drums a little 
 on the piano, and dijDs into one or two magazines. 
 Minnie is busily employed in sending well-laden 
 messengers to Glen Flora, whither she herself goes 
 at four o'clock. At half-past four the invited 
 guests assemble in the hall. Flora comes down 
 in a pretty blue muslin that is very becoming, 
 with a broad-brimmed straw hat shading her face. 
 She smiles and says, " It is time to start, since we 
 were requested to be punctual." 
 
 How it chances — whether from accident or not 
 — Charlton does not know, but he finds himself by 
 her side as they pass out of the house, and he has 
 
"IF SHE BE NOT FAIR TO ME." 151 
 
 no oj^portunity to rectify the mistake, if mistake 
 it is, by falling back. Perhaps he has little desire 
 to do so. Flora shows by a certain gentle eager- 
 ness of manner that she is not ill-pleased with his 
 companionship, and there is a charm in hers which 
 he appreciates as much as ever. The flower-like 
 eyes, the quick symjjathy, the wistful, tender voice 
 will be Sunderland's for life ; so the man who 
 must soon say farewell to them forever feels that 
 he may, without harming any one, enjoy them for 
 a little while. lie strolls by her side, therefore, 
 along the river bank, which they follow for some 
 distance. Then the path turns abruptly and leads 
 them among the hills. Long lances of sunlight 
 stream into the green stillness of the forest. All 
 manner of sweet resinous odors greet them. 
 Through the winding gorge which they enter, a 
 tumultuous stream comes in white, foaming rap- 
 ids. Presently they pass around the jutting 
 shoulder of a great hill, and then a pretty sight 
 is before them. 
 
 The gorge has expanded into a lovely glen, 
 overhung on all sides but one by steej), precipitous 
 hills, the sides of which are a mass of verdure, a 
 riotous tangle of vines and flowers. At the base 
 of the steepest of these heights, a spring gushes 
 up from among gray rocks — the head of the stream 
 which takes its way through the gorge. Large 
 masses of rock are scattered in every direction, 
 cushioned with moss, draped with ferns. On one 
 
152 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 of these — a smooth, flat bowlder — the table is set. 
 At a little distance a bright fire burns, over which 
 a kettle is suspended. Minnie and Oscar are hov- 
 ering around this, busily engaged making tea ; 
 George, at a little distance, is cutting lemons for 
 lemonade ; Jack is pounding the lemons prepara- 
 tory to their being cut ; while Nellie is assisting 
 (and hindering) both parties as much as possible. 
 The smoke mounts upward among the green 
 boughs, a pretty pale-blue thread ; the crystal 
 water flashes like 
 
 *' a Naiad's silvery feet, 
 In quick and coy retreat," 
 
 as it ripples by ; the amber sunshine streams on 
 the hillsides, lighting up the rich foliage and mas- 
 sive rocks, while the glen rests in cool green 
 shadow. The whole scene is charming and pict- 
 uresque in the extreme. 
 
 " So this is Glen Flora ! " says Charlton. 
 " What a lovely place ! Why have you never 
 brought me here before ? " 
 
 "There have been so many places to show 
 you," Flora answers, "that I never thought of 
 this. Well, Minnie, I hope we are not too early ? " 
 
 " Oh no," replies Minnie ; " tea vnl\ be ready 
 in a few minutes. Nellie, bring some more twigs 
 to the fire. This kettle is not boiling as it ought.'' 
 
 " Let us sit down and wait for the kettle to 
 boil," says Flora. 
 
- "IF SHE BE NOT FAIR TO ME." 153 
 
 So they sit down on a rock, and for ten min- 
 utes longer Charlton enjoys his bit of pleasure un- 
 disturbed, looks in the fair face that is not fair 
 for him, and listens to the sweet voice that will 
 never utter the words he wishes to hear. Then 
 Sunderland appears round the corner of the hill, 
 and the pleasure is over. He comes up and throws 
 himself down on the ferns at Flora's feet. Charl- 
 ton rises, feeling that his hour is over, says a few 
 words, and then walks away, leaving the cousins 
 toijether. 
 
 One of them, at least, is grateful for this con- 
 sideration. Harry looks up in the blue eyes above 
 him and says : " How pleasant this is, Floy ! Do 
 you feel it as well as I ? Are you glad that we 
 are here aj^ain — toarether ? " 
 
 His voice drops over the last words into a ten- 
 der key. With the best intentions possible, he is 
 not averse to practising on his cousin the art 
 which a two years' training in flirtation has given 
 him — the great art of implying in tone and look 
 infinitely more than is expressed in words. He 
 learned this lesson very quickly, and is now re- 
 garded as an adept in the science. There can be 
 no doubt, however, that at present he has made a 
 grave mistake. Flora, who is ready to renew the 
 frank kindness, the cousinly familiarity of their 
 old association, draws back from such glances and 
 cadences as these. She understands them — the 
 dullest woman alive must have understood them — 
 
154 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 and it seems to her that their meaning is very 
 plain ; that Harry wishes to amuse himself by 
 flirting with her — feeling, no doubt, that this 
 amusement is better than none. A quick throb 
 of indignation, a quick sensation of wounded j^ride, 
 passes over her ; but she is self-possessed enough 
 to keep all traces of such emotions out of her tone 
 as she answers : 
 
 " Of course I am glad that you are back again ; 
 but I should think that all this would be very dull 
 and uninteresting to you. A gypsy supper must 
 seem like tea after champagne to one who has 
 known gayer festivities." 
 
 " The gayer festivities have bored me a hun- 
 dred times — which no gypsy supper ever did," 
 says Harry. " If you knew how happy it makes 
 me to be here with you now, you Avould not say 
 such unkind things." 
 
 "I did not mean to be unkind. It did not 
 seem to me a very terrible accusation that pas- 
 toral pleasures might have lost their savor to 
 you." 
 
 " How could they — when all the best happiness 
 of my life is connected with them ? " 
 
 " The best happiness of your life ! " She 
 laughs. " My dear Harry, do you know for two 
 days together what is the happiness of your 
 life ? " 
 
 " Flora ! " says Harry. He is so much sur- 
 prised, that he scarcely remembers that he has a 
 
"IF SHE BE NOT FAIR TO ME." 155 
 
 right to be indignant. " Wliat do you mean ? 
 By Jove, I never heard anything — " 
 
 " Supper's ready — come to supper, Floy ! " 
 cries Nellie, darting forward. 
 
 Flora rises at once — by no means ill pleased 
 with the interruption — and, accompanied by Har- 
 ry, goes to the rock which serves as a table, where 
 the rest are gathered. Charlton is the only lag- 
 gard ; but before Minnie has finished pouring out 
 the cups of tea, he appears with two or three 
 flowers in his hand. 
 
 " I saw these on the hill yonder," he says to 
 Flora, " and remembering that you said they were 
 rare, and that you wanted a specimen, I got them 
 for you." 
 
 " Thank you," she says, receiving them with a 
 grateful glance. " It was very kind of you to 
 remember what I said, and to climb that steep hill. 
 They are beautiful." 
 
 " They are the tribute of the glen to its god- 
 dess," says Harry, gallantly. 
 
 " I like better to think that they are the fruit 
 of Mr. Charlton's kindness," says Flora, looking 
 at that gentleman. 
 
 And he, meeting the frank sweet eyes, thinks 
 again how fair she is, how gracious, how tender — 
 and how far beyond his reach ! 
 
156 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 "under the greexttood bough." 
 
 The gypsy supper is a great success, if suc- 
 cess be gauged by the appetites of the company. 
 Sandwiches and cold chicken, jellies and cakes, 
 disappear with rapidity. Minnie's tea is pro- 
 nounced excellent, and George's lemonade is com- 
 mended. A bottle of claret is opened, and various 
 toasts are proposed. There is some mock speech- 
 making and much merriment — the last, probably, 
 in undue proportion. When hearts are light and 
 spii'its high, when summer skies are fair and sum- 
 mer woods green, who can wonder at the laugh 
 which is quick to follow the poorest jest ? 
 
 " ' Oh, a life in the woods is the life for me, 
 And that is the life for a man ! 
 Let others boast of their home on the sea, 
 But match me the woods if you can ! ' " 
 
 sings George, who is slightly exhilarated by the 
 claret. "Mr. Charlton, do you like this better 
 than roughing among the Balsams ? " 
 
 " Do you ? " inquires Charlton. 
 
 " Not I," answers the young fellow gayly. 
 " Bear-meat and venison are better than all your 
 dainties. Miss Minnie." 
 
 " I'm sure you needn't sneer at my dainties," 
 
"UNDER THE GREENWOOD DOUGU." I57 
 
 says Minnie. " You liave done full justice to 
 them." 
 
 Presently the last rays of sunlight disappear 
 from the crest of the hills, and then the little party 
 agree that it is time to think of preparing to go 
 home. Flora rises and walks to the spring. She 
 has not been here before since Harry went away, 
 and it seems to her as if all the changes which the 
 intermediate time has wrought are mirrored in the 
 crystal water at her feet — water in which she saw 
 her face last when it was two years younger. She 
 bends and looks at it now, a little wistfully ; and 
 as she does so, another face suddenly appears, re- 
 flected beside her own. The last time that she 
 bent over the water in this way, it was Harry's 
 that she saw — now it is Charlton's ! The acci- 
 dent startles her, as trivial things of the kind often 
 do startle those least inclined to regard them. 
 She turns quickly. 
 
 " How did you come here ? " she asks. " T 
 lieard no step. You — you surprised mo very 
 much." 
 
 " I beg pardon," says Charlton — Avho sees, to 
 his surprise, that she is seriously moved — " I did 
 not think of surprising you. I approached, and 
 seeing you looking into the water, I looked also 
 involuntarily. I ought to have remembered that 
 you could not hear my step on this soft turf, and 
 would therefore be startled at seeing my face." 
 
 " Pray excuse me — I should not have spoken 
 
158 A SmiMER IDYL. 
 
 SO hastily," she says, bhisbing. " I am not often 
 nervous, but — I was nervous just tben." 
 
 " And I was to blame. Don't think of it any 
 more. I came to ask you if you can climb that 
 hill to see the sunset. I am sure there must be a 
 fine view from the top." 
 
 " I — don't think I can," she answers hesitating- 
 ly. A sense of constraint with Charlton comes 
 over her — why, she scarcely knows. Perhaps the 
 cause is in a look she catches on Sunderland's face 
 — a look of restrained yet significant intelligence ; 
 or perhaps it comes from that accidental reflection 
 in the spring. It is diflicult to say how the feel- 
 ing originates, but it certainly exists, as she says : 
 " The ascent is very steep, and I believe I am tired." 
 
 " I thought it might be too steep for you," 
 Charlton says, "but J shall try it. Judging from 
 these clouds floating above, the sunset must be 
 gorgeous." 
 
 He goes off without saying anything more, 
 and Flora thinks again — as she has thought before 
 — that his tact and consideration are perfect. 
 Then she accuses herself of having been brusque 
 and unkind for no reason whatever, and so sits 
 down depressed and despondent. She sees Charl- 
 ton, Mr. Martin, and the rest begin the ascent of 
 the hill. Sunderland does not accompany them. 
 He saunters, instead, up to her. 
 
 " You must be surely out of practice, Floy, 
 to consider that hill too steep for climbing," he 
 
"UNDER THE GREENWOOD BOUGH." 159 
 
 says. "I am sure you used to climb it like a 
 deer." 
 
 " No, I am not out of practice," answers Flora ; 
 *' l»ut I don't feel like the exertion — that is all." 
 
 " Neither do I — since you don't," he says, with 
 a well-satisfied air, seating himself on the rocks 
 by her side. 
 
 At this moment it chances that Charlton turns 
 his head and glances down into the glen. lie did 
 not turn to look at Flora, but she feels as if he did. 
 It suddenly occurs to her that he will think she 
 staid to be with Sunderland, and the thought 
 sends the blood in warm tide to her face. " Pray 
 go, Harry ! " she says, in an almost imploring 
 tone. " I cannot bear to think that you are de- 
 priving yourself of the sunset to stay with me." 
 
 " But suppose I would rather stay with you ? " 
 says Harry, composedly. "You credit me with 
 more taste for sunsets than I possess." 
 
 " You said yesterday that you admired them 
 exceedingly." 
 
 " So I do when you are with me. You don't 
 surely need to be reminded of those lines in your 
 favorite song : 
 
 " * \Ve feel how the blest charms of Nature improve 
 When we see them reflected in eyes that we love.' " 
 
 " I wish you would not talk in that way ! " 
 says Flora, with impatience. " It is nonsense — 
 and I don't like nonsense ! " 
 
160 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 " Then you've changed amazingly," says Harry. 
 " But what I said was not nonsense at all. That 
 is your mistake." 
 
 " Oh, well, I don't care to argue about it. Go, 
 like a good boy, and look at the sunset." 
 
 " I'll go if you will come, or if you seriously 
 want to be rid of me ; but, honestly, I don't care 
 a fig for the sunset." 
 
 " I don't think you have improved in taste 
 since you went away," says Flora, who has decided 
 that to follow with Harry will be (in Charlton's 
 eyes) exactly the same as if she remained at the 
 spring with him. Of course none of this consid- 
 eration would be necessary but for the memory 
 of her unfortunate confession at Caesar's Head — 
 unfortunate, because she fancies that Charlton in- 
 terprets all her actions now in the light of it. 
 
 " You are mistaken again," says Harry, in an- 
 swer to her last speech. " My taste is neither 
 worse nor better than it was when I went away. 
 I should have taken your society in preference to 
 a sunset then, just as I take it now." 
 
 " Your memory of things before you went 
 away is better than mine," says Flora — not quite 
 sincerely, it is to be feared. " See the sunset ra- 
 diance on those clouds yonder ! Is it not beau- 
 tiful ? " 
 
 " Yery fine ! " says Harry, glancing carelessly 
 at the refulgent masses of cumulous vapor. "But 
 I wonder if you mean what you say ? I wonder 
 
"UNDER THE GREEXWOOD BOUGH." 161 
 
 if my memory is better than yoiu's of some things 
 that occurred before I went away ? " 
 
 "Very likely it is," says Flora, outwardly 
 calm in exact proportion to her inward disturb- 
 ance — a rare and happy faculty which some tem- 
 peraments possess. 
 
 " Turn your head," says Harry, " and you will 
 see on the beech behind you the record of some- 
 thing which I at least have never forgotten. Do 
 you mean that you have done so ? " 
 
 Flora does not turn her head, but she knows 
 what he means. On the silvery beech-bark are 
 carved the initials of their names, encircled by a 
 true-lover's knot. IIow well she remembers the 
 last day they were here together, when, with eyes 
 filled with tears, she watched him carve it ! There 
 was nothing explicitly said — but how well they 
 understood each other ! " The tree will be our 
 witness," Harry had said. And now they are 
 once more here together, with the silent yet elo- 
 quent tree flinging its rustling depths of shade 
 over them. And Flora looks at him and says, 
 " That was childish folly. Why do you speak 
 of it ? " 
 
 " Childish folly ! " he repeats. " By Jove ! 
 we were rather mature children. You were elidi- 
 teen and I was twenty-two. If that is not old 
 enough for one to know one's own mind — " 
 
 He stops suddenly, for she extends her hand 
 and lays it on his arm. " Hush, Harry ! " she 
 11 
 
162 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 says. " Tills is folly which has not childishness 
 to excuse it. You did not know your own mind 
 then any more than you know it now. Don't 
 think I mean to say anything harsh. No doubt 
 you will be stable enough some day ; but the 
 time for it has not come yet. That is all." 
 
 " That is not all ! " says Harry, who is rousing 
 out of his usual sunny-tempered calm to absolute 
 indignation. " Tou must not think that I am to 
 be set down like a schoolboy in that fashion. I 
 don't mean to defend my conduct — I know I have 
 acted like a fickle fool — but a man is often forced 
 to learn what is true by testing what is false. I 
 have learned. I was certain of that before I saw 
 you — I am more certain now. I would not try to 
 bind you by a promise before I went away, be- 
 cause I was not sure of myself. Now I am sure, 
 and now — with our beech-tree for witness again — 
 I beg, Flora, dear Flora, for your promise. Your 
 promise, do I say ? I beg for yourself ! " 
 
 " O Harry ! " says Flora. For a moment it is 
 all that she can say. She turns away her face, 
 that he may not see the tears which gather so 
 thickly in her eyes that she cannot distinguish a 
 feature of the landscape. A little while ago they 
 would have been tears of joy — now they are 
 tears of a strange, sad regret that this, which 
 might once have meant happiness, has been de- 
 layed too late. Harry, who has very confident 
 anticipations of what her answer will be, is great- 
 
"UNDER THE GREENWOOD BOUGH." 163 
 
 ly astonished when, with something like a sob, 
 she says, " You might have spared me this." 
 
 " What is there in it that I might have spared 
 you ? " he asks. " Surely you knew it long ago. 
 I loved you with all my heart when I went away, 
 and held myself as much bound to you as if we 
 had exchanged vows as betrothed lovers." 
 
 " Harry ! " she says again — but the tone of 
 her voice is changed now. She turns and looks 
 at him. Tears are still hanging on her lashes, 
 but in the dewy eyes there is a startled gleam. 
 " Harry," she says, gravely, " I don't think you 
 know what you are saying. It is impossible that 
 you could have felt yourself in any manner bound 
 to me when you went away." 
 
 " By Heaven, I did ! " cries Harry. " And I 
 considered that in the same manner you were 
 bound to me." 
 
 " I think not," answers Flora, calmly. " I am 
 glad to think that we were not bound in the least. 
 I have done you the justice to remember that al- 
 ways, Harry ; and you do yourself injustice when 
 you try to make me believe differently." 
 
 " I suppose you are thinking of Miss Preston," 
 says Harry, feeling, with a sudden thrill of recol- 
 lection, that he has overshot his mark and said a 
 little too much. 
 
 " Yes, of Miss Preston," Flora answers. " I 
 should not like to believe that you felt yourself 
 in any manner bound to me when you were in 
 
164 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 love with — perhaps engaged to — her. It would 
 not have been treating either of us very fairly, do 
 you think ? But I am sure you could not have 
 done such a thing. It is only because you are 
 here — in the midst of scenes which revive old 
 fancies — that you imagine anything of the kind." 
 
 " I am not so volatile as you suppose," says 
 Harry, injured and obstinate. " I did feel myself 
 bound to you, and I should not have made a fool 
 of myself with Gertrude Preston if I had not been 
 assured of your indifference to — old fancies." 
 
 " My indifference ! " says Flora, with a gasp. 
 " How could you possibly be assured of that ? " 
 
 Harry hesitates. He is confused at the unex- 
 pected turn which the conversation has taken, and 
 for the life of him he cannot decide whether it is 
 better to be reticent or candid. But he is aware 
 that Flora regards his last assertion incredulous- 
 ly, and he is anxious to make her understand with 
 w^hat high-minded virtue he has acted. 
 
 " If you must know," he answers, finally, " I 
 told Charlton, when he came here, to discover if 
 possible how you felt toward me ; and he wrote 
 positively that he was sure you only cared for me 
 
 as a — " 
 
 He breaks off abruptly, for Flora's face tells 
 him what a blunder he has made. Never has he 
 seen it wear such a look before. The blue eyes 
 expand, and flash on him a glance in. which amaze- 
 ment, indignation, and scorn are mingled. Then 
 
"UNDER THE GREENWOOD BOUGH." 165 
 
 she rises, before lie can say one word to detain 
 her, and walks away. 
 
 Not far. Only to where one of the surround- 
 ing hills shelves down in an abrupt cliff, and 
 where there is an escarpment that she knows well 
 — a flowery ledge on which she formerly loved to 
 climb and sit. She bends her face do\vn on this, 
 and bursts into such passionate tears of anger, and 
 grief, and mortification, as have never come from 
 her eyes before. It seems almost more than she 
 can bear ! That Harry should have cared for 
 her so little as to send a stranger to pry into the 
 most sacred secret of her heart ; and that this 
 stranger should have been Charlton, to whom she 
 confessed everything ! There are no words to 
 describe the resentment, the sense of having been 
 deceived and outraged, which possesses her ! 
 
 " Flora," says Harry, coming to her side full 
 of the deepest concern, " what have I done or said 
 that you should treat me like this ? I can explam 
 everything. If you will only listen — " 
 
 " Listen ! " she says, drawing back from the 
 touch of his hand. " I have heard more than 
 enough already — far more than I can ever forget. 
 Go, Harry. There is nothing to be explained. I 
 see it all. You fancied your honor was bound to 
 me, and you wanted to be set free. Ah, if you 
 had only trusted me, if you had only written one 
 word, if you had only spared me an indignity I 
 can never forget or forgive — As it is, there is 
 
166 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 nothing to be said. Pray go, and leave me 
 alone." 
 
 " Go and leave you angry with me, like this ! 
 That is asking too much. Flora, on my honor, I 
 never thought such things as you fancy. I wanted 
 to know the truth, and — " 
 
 " And you had not courage enough to ask me 
 for it ! " she says, turning her face around Tvdth 
 an absolute blaze of scorn and indignation in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " How could I ask you for it ? There are 
 some things a man cannot ask." 
 
 " Then he should be ashamed to send another 
 man — like a spy — to discover them." 
 
 " Flora ! " says Harry. He is amazed to the 
 degree of absolute consternation. In his wildest 
 dreams he never imagined such capabilities of 
 passion in his gentle cousin as she is now display- 
 ing. " What a fool I was to say anything about 
 the matter ! " he thinks. 
 
 But this thought — like many wise and witty 
 ones — comes too late to be of service. Flora 
 takes her hat, and ties it on with trembling hands. 
 Then she says, " I am going home." 
 
 " Of course, I shall come with you," he an- 
 swers. 
 
 " No," she says ; " I beg that you will not. I 
 prefer to go alone." 
 
 " Are you so angry with me ? " he asks. " Floy, 
 this is not like you," he goes on, taking one of 
 
"OH, MY COUSIX, SriALLOW-HEARTED." 167 
 
 the small, tremulous hands. " In all our quarrels 
 you never refused to forgive me when I begged 
 — as I do now — for pardon." 
 
 She draws her hand from his clasp and darts 
 away, leaving the glen now as she left it two 
 years before — in tears. 
 
 Harry does not wait to be assailed by the 
 questions of the party descending the hill. He 
 follows Flora — keeping her figure in sight until 
 she reaches the familiar river-path. Then he 
 turns into a pine hollow, throws himself at length 
 on the carpet of dry and fragrant needles, lights 
 a cigar, and proceeds to meditate. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " on, MY COUSIN, SHALLOW-HEAETED." 
 
 Flora is not seen again that evening. When 
 the others reach the house, they are informed that 
 she has retii'ed to her room with a severe head- 
 ache. This is felt on all sides to be singular, 
 since she is seldom a victim of this common fem- 
 inine malady ; but only Charlton suspects of 
 what cause the headache may be an effect. In- 
 deed, his suspicion is resolved into a certainty by 
 Sunderland's absence. After the merriment of 
 the afternoon, general lassitude is the order of the 
 evening, and most of the party are assembled on 
 
168 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 the piazza in the broad, histrous moonlight when 
 that young gentleman is finally seen slowly ap- 
 proaching the house. 
 
 "Well, Harry," says Colonel Tyrrell, as he 
 drops into a chair, without uttering a word, " we 
 began to think that you had turned gypsy in ear- 
 nest. "Where have you been all this time ? " 
 
 " Smoking on the river-bank," answers Harry. 
 " It is very pleasant there just now. The current 
 is so clear and placid, I was half -minded to go in 
 for a swim." 
 
 " Just the thing ! " says George eagerly. 
 "We'll try it at bedtime — and sleep like tops 
 afterward." 
 
 " Some of us will sleep like tops without it," 
 says Minnie with a yawn. "Harry, what gave 
 Floy a headache ? We left her in the glen with 
 you, and the first thing we are told when we come 
 home is that she has gone to her room with a head- 
 ache." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear it," answers Harry ; " but 
 I am unable to imagine what could have given 
 her a headache — unless it was some of George's 
 jokes." 
 
 " I don't think they were heavy enough for 
 that," says George, good-naturedly. "But what 
 made you both disappear so fast when you saw us 
 coming ? " 
 
 "Because we wanted a quiet walk," replies 
 Harry, who has as little regard for veracity — when 
 
"OH, MY COUSLV, SHALLOW-HEARTED." 169 
 
 veracity does not answer his purj^ose — as any- 
 other man. 
 
 Soon after, the boys go away for a swim, in- 
 viting Harry to aceomjjany them. He declines. 
 " It would be pleasant," he says, " if it were not 
 for the exertion required ; but I feel too indolent 
 for that." So he remains, lying idly back in his 
 chair, and bearing no part in the conversation 
 which the other gentlemen Sustain. This conver- 
 sation is not veiy absorbing in its nature, and pres- 
 ently Mr. Martin follows the boys. At ten o'clock 
 Colonel Tyrrell, according to his usual custom, re- 
 tires ; and then Sunderland speaks : 
 
 " I don't suppose you are inclined to go to your 
 virtuous slumbers at such an hour as this, Charl- 
 ton. Come, let us stroll down to the river. I've 
 a few words to say to you." 
 
 " I may as well light another cigar, then," says 
 Charlton with a slight sigh. 
 
 The cigar is lighted, and they take their way, 
 in the balmy white moonlight, toward the bridge. 
 On it they pause. The river flows below with 
 glancing light on every rij^ple ; the trees di'oop 
 motionless with glistening leaves ; the -svide-spread- 
 ing fields, the hills, the mountains, all stand dis- 
 tinct — yet glorified — in the silver radiance. The 
 beauty of the night makes Charlton recollect much 
 such another. "A month acjo I was on Csesar's 
 Head," he thinks ; and as he thinks it, his com- 
 panion's tones break on the soft stillness. 
 
170 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 (C 
 
 I made an awful blunder this afternoon, 
 Charlton. I wonder if you can imagine what it 
 was ? " 
 
 "Not much difficulty about that," Charlton 
 answers. " You offered your hand and your heart, 
 and anything else you had about you, to your 
 cousin — too precipitately." 
 
 " What do you mean by too precipitately ? " 
 
 "You know what I mean. You have been 
 away two years, and you have been in love with 
 another woman. You ought to have effaced those 
 facts from her memory before you fired a declara- 
 tion like a broadside at her." 
 
 " I did not think of firing a declaration like a 
 broadside," says Sunderland, slightly piqued. " I 
 only spoke of the past. It was almost impossible 
 to avoid doing so in that glen." 
 
 " There was no harm in doing so," remarks 
 the Mentor, rolling out a cloud of smoke. 
 
 " It would seem not ; but harm came of it, as 
 you shall hear." Then he relates with sufficient 
 accuracy all that occurred in the glen, not omitting 
 the crowning blunder when he told Flora that he 
 had commissioned Charlton to report how much 
 she cared for him. 
 
 At this Charlton takes his cigar from his 
 mouth and looks at the speaker with amazement, 
 " By Heaven, Sunderland ! " he says ; " you don't 
 seriously mean that you told her that f " 
 
 " Yes, I do ! " answers Sunderland. " Of 
 
"OH, MY COUSIN, SH.VLLOW-nEARTED." 171 
 
 course it was a blunder, and one which, if I had 
 been cooler, I should never have committed ; but 
 it came altogether from my eagerness to explain 
 my entanglement with Gertrude Preston." 
 
 "I could not have conceived that you were 
 such a fool ! " says Charlton, relieving his feelings 
 by flinging his cigar into the river. 
 
 Sunderland does not resent this plain speaking. 
 On the contrary, he agrees that he icas a fool, and 
 says as much with despondent humility. Then 
 he describes the manner in which Flora received 
 the information, and Charlton feels that she must 
 have been moved in no ordinary manner to display 
 so much passion and indignation. 
 
 "To think that, after all these years, you 
 should know your cousin no better than that ! " 
 he says. " Why, I — I, in two months — have 
 learned to understand her better." 
 
 "You've had nothing to do but study her," 
 says Sunderland impatiently, "and you are an 
 observer of character by trade. But I ought to 
 have knowii better on general principles. I con- 
 fess that." 
 
 " It is rather late to confess it," says the other, 
 grimly. " Unless I am very much mistaken, you 
 have done more mischief than you can readily 
 mend." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " asks Sunderland. I 
 don't believe Flora will bear malice — she never 
 did." 
 
172 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 " Bear malice — stuff ! Who is talking of bear- 
 ing malice ? She'll forgive you, no doubt ; but 
 she will not forget such a wound to her heart, or 
 such an insult to her pride. And you must needs 
 draw me into the matter — as if it was not enough 
 that I undertook such a fool's errand simply to 
 oblige you ! " 
 
 " It doesn't matter about you," says Sunder- 
 land, indifferently. " If she has refused you, 
 there's no reason to care what she thinks of you, 
 I'm sure." 
 
 " That is your idea, is it ? But to my mmd 
 there is something in the world besides love-mak- 
 ing ; and I should have liked to keep Flora Tyr- 
 rell as my friend." 
 
 " And do you honestly think she'll resent the 
 matter so very much ? " 
 
 " I am convinced that she will. What your 
 chances may be with her after this, I don't pretend 
 to say ; but unless she is very unlike other women, 
 she will never forgive me." 
 
 And this is not merely an utterance of the 
 moment, but remains an opinion firmly fixed in 
 Charlton's mind. After he has at length got rid 
 of Harry, and faces the matter coolly in the soli- 
 tude of his own chamber, it is more than ever the 
 conclusion to which his reflections point. He 
 knows enough of Flora to understand how deeply 
 she is wounded, how slow she will be to condone 
 such an offense ; but he also fancies that he knows 
 
"On, MY COUSIX, SHALLOW-HEARTED." I73 
 
 enough of women in the abstract to predicate 
 with certainty that she will finally pardon the man 
 she loves, and will visit all the strength of her 
 indignation on the man she does not love — the 
 man who (she may possibly fancy) gave the ad- 
 vice that kept Harry away, in order that the field 
 might be clear for his o^vn suit. 
 
 The next morning astonishment fills the house- 
 hold that Flora does not appear at breakfast. 
 Minnie takes her place, and answers all inquiries 
 by saying that " Floy does not feel well enough 
 to come down. She is feverish and has a sore 
 throat." 
 
 " Just what I expected ! " says Colonel Tyr- 
 rell, while Charlton and Sunderland exchange a 
 quick glance. " Now, don't let me hear of any 
 more g}T)sying nonsense ! There is no possible 
 reason why supper should be better, eaten on the 
 ground than on a table." 
 
 The day wears away in rather dull fashion. 
 Minnie informs every one that " Floy has a dread- 
 ful headache," so all sounds are subdued ; and as 
 Charlton sits in his own room writing, he could 
 almost fancy that the house is deserted or under 
 a spell. Usually the boys laugh and whistle and 
 bound up and down-stairs, Xellie's voice is heard, 
 Minnie sings, the notes of the piano sound. Xow 
 an occasional careful footstep is all that is heard. 
 In the afternoon — Flora being still reported 
 "feverish" — George goes over to Brevard and 
 
174 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 returns Tvith a doctor. This gentleman speaks 
 lightly of the malady. " Some cold — a slight 
 fever — nervous system disordered," is the amount 
 of his diagnosis. He prescribes accordingly, and 
 departs. 
 
 Flora's indisposition — which is very real, 
 though not very severe — continues for several 
 days. By this time September is well advanced, 
 and although summer gives no sign of drawing 
 her reign to an end, Charlton feels that he must 
 go. Already he has delayed his departure far be- 
 yond his original intention, and now he tells him- 
 self that he only waits to see Flora once more, to 
 touch her hand, to look into her eyes, to say if 
 possible one word in his defense, and then to make 
 the wrench of departure. At least he tells him- 
 seK this, until a day comes when something sug- 
 gests that perhaps it would be better if he went 
 without such leave-taking ; and the result of the 
 thought is that Nellie brings to the side of the 
 couch on which Flora lies, pale and languid, the 
 following note : 
 
 " My Deae Miss Tykeell : 
 
 " It becomes daily more necessary that I should 
 tear myself away from this pleasant resting-place, 
 and go back to the world and to work. I should 
 like to have the satisfaction of bidding you a per- 
 sonal farewell. But it has lately struck me that 
 perhaps you had rather be spared such a last tax 
 
"On, MY COUSIN, SHALLOW-nEARTED." I75 
 
 upon your kindness. If this is the case, may I 
 beg you to say so frankly ? I hope you know me 
 well enough to be aware that I could not misin- 
 terpret anything you might say or do, but that, 
 with best wishes for your speedy recovery, I am 
 always Faithfully yours, 
 
 " Geoffeey Charlton." 
 
 The answer to this is short but satisfactory : 
 
 " Dear Me. Charlton : 
 
 " I shall be truly sorry if you leave before I 
 am well enough to see you. I hope to come down 
 to-morrow. Yours sincerely, 
 
 " Flora Tyrrell." 
 
 Flora is as good as her word, and comes down 
 the next day. She looks frail and white, and 
 more as if she had passed through a long illness 
 than a trifling indisposition. On some tempera- 
 ments the sickness of a day or an hour leaves such 
 traces as these ; but they are generally tempera- 
 ments that rally as quickly as they fail. There is 
 an undefinable change of expression on Flora's 
 face that makes Charlton realize that her sickness 
 has been more of the mind than the body. The 
 eyes — which seem to have grown larger — are also 
 graver, the tender lips are more firm, the gentle 
 manner a shade more reserved. It is only to Sun- 
 derland and himself that this reserve is percepti- 
 
176 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 ble ; and to them it is so delicately marked tliat 
 men of duller perceptions would not observe it. 
 
 They observe it, however, and each wonders 
 how much the other is conscious of it. The fam- 
 ily are assembled in the sitting-room^ after break- 
 fast, and Flora says with a smile : 
 
 "I have been in solitary confinement long 
 enough to feel that it is agreeable to enter society 
 once more. If I were sufficiently strong, I would 
 make a speech of thanks for all the kind attentions 
 I have received. As it is, you must all be good 
 enough to believe that I am very grateful for your 
 birds and fish and other pleasant things." 
 
 *' We tried to get all we could for you," says 
 Oscar, constituting himself spokesman for the 
 party. " Harry shot the birds." 
 
 " And they were excellent," says Flora, look- 
 ing at Harry. 
 
 " I am glad you liked them," he answers a lit- 
 tle diffidently. " I find that I am out of practice 
 as a sportsman, but I tried a gun in your behalf." 
 
 "We must get up a deer-hunt, Harry," says 
 George. " Fanshaw was speaking to me about 
 it yesterday. What a pity that Mr. Charlton is 
 going away so soon ! " 
 
 "Are you going soon, Mr. Charlton?" Flora 
 asks. 
 
 " I have made my arrangements to leave to- 
 morrow," he answers, " and this time I think that 
 I shall certainly go." 
 
*'0n, MY COUSIN, SHALLOW-HEARTED." I77 
 
 " If you'll wait a week longer, Charlton, I'll go 
 with you," says Harry. " After all, you know 
 there is no need for haste." 
 
 "Xot the least need as far as you are con- 
 cerned," answers Charlton. " I can best judge of 
 the necessity in my own case, however." 
 
 " I was not aware that you were thinking of 
 leaving so soon, Harry," says Colonel Tyrrell, 
 with his brow clouding. 
 
 " Oh," says Harry, " I only came for a glimpse 
 of you all. Having had that, I might as well take 
 flight again." 
 
 " Harry is bored, papa," says Minnie. " That 
 is what is the matter." 
 
 " In that case, perhaps the best thing that he 
 can do will be to go," says Colonel Tyrrell, rising 
 and walking away. 
 
 " It is rather a dangerous business that of at- 
 tempting to interpret what you don't understand, 
 Minette," says Harry, quietly. " Now, Flora, this 
 is not very interesting. Can we do or say any- 
 thing to amuse you ? Should you like some read- 
 ing ? " 
 
 " Very much," answers Flora, who just now 
 prefers anything to conversation. 
 
 " What will you read ? " asks Charlton. 
 
 " * The Kartlily Paradise,' I suppose," answers 
 Sunderland, going to the table and taking up a 
 volume of that poem. 
 
 He returns to his seat, opens the book, and be- 
 12 
 
178 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 gins to read in his pleasant, well-modulated voice. 
 By degrees the circle diminishes — as, perhaps, he 
 intended that it should. The boys soon depart, 
 Nellie slips away, and presently Minnie is sum- 
 moned to some housekeeping duty. Only Charl- 
 ton is left, and he does not long play the part of 
 Monsieur de Trop. He waits until Sunderland 
 finishes the story which he is reading ; then he 
 rises to excuse himself, and leaves the room. 
 
 " By Jove ! how glad I am that they are 
 gone ! " says Harry, closing the book at once. 
 " Now, Floy, you must be very good to me in 
 order to atone for all the anxiety that I have en- 
 dured during these last four or five days." 
 
 The tug of war comes now. Flora knows it, 
 but she does not shrink. Perhaps she has pre- 
 pared herself for this. At least the grave blue 
 eyes meet Sunderland's very calmly as she says : 
 " Why have you been enduring anxiety ? I do 
 not understand for what I have to atone." 
 
 " You do not have to atone for anything," he 
 answers. " If there is atonement to be made, it 
 falls on me. And I am ready to make any that 
 will cause you to forget my folly, and will give 
 me your trust again. Floy, I am going to tell my 
 whole story to you — everything that has occurred 
 since I went away. Will you listen ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answers, gently, " I will listen to 
 anything you wish to tell me." 
 
 So, bending a little closer, he begins to tell his 
 
"OH, MY COUSIN, SHALLOW-HEARTED." 179 
 
 story. That he tells it well — making the very- 
 best of it in every way, without tangibly trans- 
 gressing truth in any particular — it is impossible 
 to deny. By a few strokes he sketches himself 
 with a great deal of skill, conveying the impres- 
 sion that his fancy alone wandered, while his 
 heart remained true, making his listener realize 
 the flattered vanity, the superficial admiration, 
 which he regarded for a little while as his love 
 for Miss Preston. Then he touches on the deli- 
 cate ground of his commission to Charlton ; tells, 
 with suitable reservation, how it was given and 
 how executed ; describes the rapid cooling of his 
 passion for the woman to whom he was engaged, 
 and then — half unconsciously — betrays that it was 
 Miss Dupont's letter which turned his thoughts 
 again to Flora by suggesting a vague jealousy of 
 Charlton, a vague doubt that the latter may have 
 been mistaken in his assurance of her indifference. 
 " I determined to come and see for myself how 
 matters stood," says Harry, " and every hour that 
 brought me nearer to you seemed to bring my 
 heart back to its true allesjiance. I bes^in to feel 
 like a man who had been crazy and was sane 
 ajrain — who had been drunk and was sober. The 
 thought of you was like pure mountain air — it 
 brought rest and refreshment. When I saw you 
 — ah, Floy, I can't tell you what I felt when I saw 
 you ! For one thing, I felt I had been an ineffa- 
 ble fool ! Dear, tell me that I have not lost 
 
180 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 everything by my delay — that I have not come 
 too late ! " 
 
 He holds out his hands eagerly, the handsome 
 face looks imploringly into her own. That he is 
 altogether in earnest it is impossible to doubt. 
 Flora does not doubt it. She reads him better 
 than he has read himself, and with a sweet, sad 
 smile she says : 
 
 " No, you did not come too late. I am glad 
 now that you did not come earlier. All might 
 have been different then, and we might have 
 made a worse mistake than our childish folly two 
 years ago. Dear Harry, don't you see that what 
 you feel for me is only the result of old associa- 
 tion ? It is not strong, nor stable, nor independent 
 of other things ; it is a mere fancy which will pass 
 as it has returned — when you go away." 
 
 " Flora ! " cries Harry, unable to credit the 
 testimony of his own ears. He seizes her hands, 
 and holds them in a vise-like grasp. " It is im- 
 possible that you can mean this," he says ; " it is 
 impossible that you can expect me to receive it as 
 final. Flora, you forget that this is no affair of a 
 day or an hour ; you forget that I have loved you 
 all my life, and that the associations of which you 
 speak are more to me than anything else in the 
 world except yourself. You must understand one 
 thing distinctly : my life is in your hands. If 
 you turn me adrift, I shall feel as if I have been 
 cut loose from every anchor — every hope and good 
 
"On, MY COUSIN, SHALLOW-HEARTED." 181 
 
 intention. There is not one of them which is not 
 and has not always been associated -svith you." 
 
 "And will not be associated with some one 
 else in the time to come," says Flora, quietly. 
 " Ah, Harry ! why do you not know yourself bet- 
 ter? A little while hence you will feel how right 
 I am in what I say to-day. You are fond of me ; 
 yes, I know it ; and just now you fancy that you 
 are in love with me. But that is a mistake. If I 
 were foolish enough to let you bind yourself, do 
 you know what would follow ? You would go 
 away, and in a little while some one else would 
 come into your life ; you would fall in love with 
 her, you would be bound by your honor to me, 
 and then — and then — either you would keep your 
 faith at a cost I shall never exact, or you would 
 do something which would lower you more in 
 your own respect than sending a stranger to dis- 
 cover how much your cousin cared for you." 
 
 " Floy ! " he says, in a half-suffocated voice, 
 " you have not forgiven me for that yet ! If I 
 could only make you understand — " 
 
 " I think I understand perfectly," Flora inter- 
 rupts. " Forgive you ? Yes, I am reasonable 
 enough to forgive you now, though I think you 
 were wrong. Some things a man should discover 
 for himself. If you had come, or even if you had 
 ^Titten frankly, I would have showed you that I 
 was only your cousin." 
 
 " But you were not always only my cousin," 
 
182 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 he says, quickly. " Two years ago — ah, Flora ! 
 if you forget, I cannot." 
 
 " Forgetfulness is a good thing," she says, 
 very quietly. "If you remember those foolish 
 times, it is because you have come back, after 
 long absence, to a place fraught with their asso- 
 ciations." 
 
 " I remembered them before I came back — I 
 never forgot them." (For a moment he honestly 
 imagines that he never did.) "Floy," he goes on, 
 with a beseeching passion in his voice that thrills 
 the girl, " if I could only win your trust again, I 
 am sure all would be right. You could not send 
 me away. For the sake of the dear old times — 
 foolish though you may call them — you would try 
 to love me a little, and I would try to make that 
 little much." 
 
 She is shaken to the very centre of her soul — 
 that is evident from her pale face — ^but she is im- 
 movable in her resolution. " Harry ! " she cries, 
 like one driven to bay, " I cannot ! Don't say 
 anything more ! You mean it now, but I know 
 you better than you know yourself. I know that 
 the end would be worse than it has been already. 
 One or both of us would be wretched for life, if I 
 yielded to you. Harry, my cousin, my brother, 
 my dear, dear companion, it almost breaks my 
 heart to give you even the shortest pain. For- 
 give me, forgive me — ^but it must be so ! " 
 
 There is no faltering in voice or look. Tears 
 
"OH, MY COUSIN, SHALLOW-HEARTED." 183 
 
 fill her eyes, and she clasps her hands as she leans 
 toward him ; but a rock could sooner fly from its 
 base than any words alter her resolve. He sees, 
 feels, realizes this. It is borne to him with a sud- 
 den flash of intense consciousness that he has lost 
 his opportunity, and lost it finally. It was his a 
 little while ago — his to play with, to hold lightly, 
 to depreciate in the security of possession. Kow 
 it has been snatched out of his grasp, and placed 
 beyond his reach forever. To say that in his eyes 
 it has increased tenfold in value by this process, 
 is only to state something familiar to all who ob- 
 serv^e human nature. The possibilities that we 
 have lost seem more rich than any we have 
 grasped ; the jewel we never wore shines bright- 
 est; the happiness we never tasted seems sweetest. 
 That which might have been and yet is not — that 
 which we cast heedlessly by, little knowing its 
 true value — it is that which seems to us most sad 
 among all the sad things of which life is full. No 
 one has touched this strain better than Robert 
 Browning in some of his minor poems, and two 
 lines from one of these poems comes to Harry's 
 mind as he sits, gazing almost despaii'iugly into 
 his cousin's eyes : 
 
 " This could but have happened once, 
 And wc missed it, lost it forever." 
 
 *' It is my fault," he says, suddenly breaking 
 the silence. " I see it all. I have been a fool. 
 
184 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 and one must pay the penalty of folly. I have 
 lost the best chance of my life, and I have only 
 myself to blame. If I had come sooner — AYell, 
 other kingdoms than that of Heaven are lost by 
 laggards, I see. Flora, my sweet cousin, I think 
 I might keep straight with your hand to guide 
 me ; but since it is not to be — " 
 
 He stops abruptly, takes her into his arms, 
 kisses once, twice, thrice, the white brow where 
 the fair hair is parted, then puts her back in the 
 chair and leaves the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 "O LAST KEGEET, REGKET CAN DIE." 
 
 Before an hour has passed, Charlton learns 
 all that has happened. " You know so much of 
 the story, that it would be a pity not to give you 
 the end," Harry calmly observes. "I have told 
 Flora everything, and she has forgiven me — and 
 declined to have anything more to do with me. 
 So I think I shall pack my trunk and leave with 
 you to-morrow." 
 
 " Are you in earnest ? " asks Charlton, skepti' 
 cally. He felt so sure that the matter would end 
 with the approved reconciliation scene, that he is 
 as much surprised by Flora's decision as Sunder- 
 land could possibly have been. " You have made 
 
"0 LAST REGRET, REGRET CAN DIE." 185 
 
 another blunder," he says, impatiently, "or you 
 have misunderstood your cousin. Something is 
 certainly ^^Tong." 
 
 " Everything is T\Tong," answers Harry, " but 
 as for making a blunder — I flatter myself I am 
 not the person to do that kind of thing twice. 
 And as for misunderstanding Flora — you could 
 as soon misunderstand a man when he knocks you 
 down." 
 
 " There is some mistake in the matter," Charl- 
 ton thinks — but is wise enough not to say. " Harry 
 must have blundered again. It is impossible that 
 her pride can be so much stronger than her love." 
 Then he asks aloud : " Are you serious in thinking 
 of going with me to-morrow?" 
 
 " Perfectly serious. Why should I stay here ? 
 I hope I can bear disappointment like a man, but 
 I am not philosopher enough to live face to face 
 with it. I hardly know what I shall say to my 
 uncle by way of excuse." 
 
 "I have found in my journey through life," 
 remarks Charlton, " that the truth is generally 
 the best and the safest thing to say. Your uncle 
 Tvill have cause to be offended if you go away 
 with merely an ordinary excuse ; but, if you tell 
 him the truth, you Avill find him, I am sure, reason- 
 able and kind. Every man has a fellow-feeling 
 for a man in such a position as yours." 
 
 " By Jove, so I will ! " says Sunderland — and 
 leaves the room. 
 
186 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 Colonel Tyrrell was as kind and reasonable as 
 Charlton had predicted, but more deeply disap- 
 pointed than can be readily expressed. The plan 
 which had failed was one on which he had for 
 many years set his heart and counted confidently. 
 He feels sure that for the failure his nephew is 
 solely to blame ; but to strike a man who is al- 
 ready down by saying as much is more than he 
 can do. " I am sony, Harry," he says, " very 
 sorry ; but Flora of course knows best. I don't 
 deny that I have always hoped that you two 
 might marry. Perhaps it's not best to build hopes 
 that depend on others for their fulfillment. I shall 
 not try to detain you if you feel that you must 
 go. But you have always a son's place in my 
 heart and my house ; remember that." 
 
 " There is nothing I could not sooner forget," 
 says Harry ; and then their hands meet in that 
 grasp which expresses so much. 
 
 Flora, meanwhile, has gone to her room, and 
 does not appear again until late in the afternoon. 
 Then she comes down, and is met by her father, 
 who asks if she does not think a drive will do her 
 good. " I don't propose a ride," he says, " be- 
 cause, in the first place, I hardly think you are 
 strong enough for it, and, in the second place, the 
 saddle-horses are all gone. Harry and George 
 have taken two, and Minnie and Oscar the others. 
 If you care to drive, I'll order the carriage." 
 
 " No, papa, the wagonette," she interposes. 
 
"0 L.VST REGREr, REGRET CAN DIE." 187 
 
 "That is open, and one wants as much of this 
 delightful air as one can get." 
 
 The wagonette is accordingly ordered. Charl- 
 ton and Nellie are invited to accompany them, 
 and presently they are bowling through the val- 
 ley, with the soft, fresh breeze coming from the 
 far-off azure heights. 
 
 The charm of the winsome vallev, the magical 
 expanse of receding heights, the reposeful green- 
 ness of meadow and field and hill, all seem inten- 
 sified to Charlton by the fact of his approaching 
 de2)arture. He is as little inclined to sentimental- 
 ism as a man can be, but he has found something 
 here which he knows he is not likely to find soon, 
 if ever, again ; and the knowledge gives a pang 
 to his parting which the mere beauty of Nature 
 would be unable to cause. 
 
 " How strange that I have been here only two 
 months ! " he says after a while, partly addressing 
 Colonel Tyrrell, partly speaking to himself. " I 
 feel as if it had been a much longer time. I have 
 gl'o^vn to regard these scenes with the familiar 
 affection of an old friend." 
 
 " AVe shall expect you to say a good word for 
 the country when you go out into the world," 
 says Colonel Tyrrell, touching up his horses. " It 
 needs to be better known." 
 
 "I shall say all that I can," Charlton answers, 
 " but that may not be much. I am not one of the 
 people whose deepest impressions crystallize read- 
 
188 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 ily into descriptive phrases. I like the spirit of 
 those lines of Moore's which you sometimes sing, 
 Miss TyiTell : 
 
 " ' Sweet Innisf alien, fare thee well ! 
 May calm and sunshine long bo thine ; 
 How fair thou art let others tell, 
 While but to feel how fair be mine.' " 
 
 " It is SO much to be able to feel," says Flora, 
 smiling, " that it might seem unreasonable to ask 
 for more ; but I am sure you could describe it if 
 you chose." 
 
 " Few things are more difficult than to describe 
 with truth and simplicity," he says. " We should 
 all be artists if we could paint the common world 
 which lies around us cis it is. Besides " — uncon- 
 sciously his voice sinks a little, so as to be audible 
 only to Flora — " how could I describe the charm 
 which this summer has had for me by putting it 
 in type for indifferent eyes to read ? " 
 
 Flora is spared reply, for at this moment Col- 
 onel Tyrrell di*aws up the horses. " Floy," he 
 says, " I am going down into the meadow wheTe 
 those men are at work. You and Mr. Charlton 
 can extend your drive, and come back for me in 
 half an hour or so. There's a fine view from the 
 top of that hill over yonder, and a good road leads 
 up to it." 
 
 The hill chances to be the one where Flora 
 and Harry paused to see the sunset on the first 
 evening after the arrival of the latter. Miss 
 
"0 LAST REGRET, REGRET C.VN DIE." 189 
 
 Tyrrell looks at it with a slightly troubled expres- 
 sion, but she only says, " Yes, papa," as her father 
 hands the reins to Charlton, and steps down. 
 
 They drive on for a minute before that gentle- 
 man speaks. Then he says : " Where shall we go ? 
 I see you don't fancy the idea of that hill, and I 
 don't care a fig for the view." 
 
 " What a close observer you are ! " says Flora, 
 flushing. " I did not fancy the idea of going to 
 the hill at first, but — it does not matter. Drive 
 on, please." 
 
 " But why, if you feel the least disinclination 
 toward doing so ? " 
 
 " Why ? " — she hesitates. " Well, if you must 
 know, because I don't choose to yield to the dis- 
 inclination. You told me once that I was morbid, 
 and I fear you were right ; so I have determined 
 to conquer such weakness." 
 
 " I think I said only that you were inclined to 
 be morbid ; and I retract that now. It was pre- 
 sumption in me ever to have said such a thing." 
 
 " It was quite a true thing, I am sure. Turn 
 here to the right — into the woods." 
 
 Into the woods, full of dreamy, slanting sun- 
 shine and bosky depths of shadow, the road leads 
 them. 
 
 AVlien they reach the summit of the hill and 
 pause for the view, Nellie insists upon being set 
 doA\ni, in order that she may search for ferns, 
 which is one of her favorite pursuits. AVhile she 
 
190 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 is engaged in this manner, Charlton looks at Flora. 
 "I wonder," he says in a low voice, "if I may- 
 venture to speak to yon of something which has 
 annoyed you very much — something in which, 
 unfortunately, my name bore a share ? I should 
 not think of doing so if I were not going away so 
 soon, and if this were not probably my last oppor- 
 tunity to set myself right in your estimation." 
 
 She starts a little when he speaks first, but 
 soon recovers herself, and looks at him without 
 any change of color, with the same grave, gentle 
 regard which puzzled Sunderland earlier in the 
 day. 
 
 "You may speak, if you care to do so," she 
 answers, "but it is not necessary. I understand 
 everything, and I have no right to blame you — 
 farther than to think that you should have told 
 me frankly upon what errand you came here." 
 
 " I did not come upon any errand," he says, 
 quickly. " It is you who misconceive the impor- 
 tance of all that passed between Sunderland and 
 myself. You know, I hope, that nothing would 
 induce me to deceive you ; you also know that I 
 have no possible reason for endeavoring to repre- 
 sent youi' cousin's conduct in a better light — " 
 
 " Stop a moment," she says, in a low voice. 
 " You have reason ! You remember — ah, I am 
 sure of it^the folly I uttered to you at Cassar's 
 Head, and you think that it might be better for 
 me to be deceived than to be unhappy. But I " 
 
"0 LAST REGRET, REGRET CAN DIE." 191 
 
 — she pauses an instant — " do not think so. I am 
 glad to have learned the truth, though I cannot 
 thank you for it. I am glad — yes, glad even, to 
 know that Harry could send a stranger to learn 
 what place he still held in my heart, and could 
 hope to hear that he held none. It is hard ; but, 
 since it is true, it is best to know it." 
 
 "It is natural that you should feel in this 
 way," says Charlton. "But it is not altogether 
 just. Harry, as you are aware, is very volatile 
 and impressionable ; for a little time he fancied 
 himself in love with another woman, but I am in- 
 clined to believe you possess his true allegiance." 
 
 " I am sure that you are mistaken," she says, 
 quietly. " A mingling of many different motives 
 brought Harry back, and, once here, the spell of 
 old association did the rest. I am glad that he 
 came, and that I have had an oj^portunity to end 
 everything. If he had not done so, he would 
 have felt all his life that he had failed to act as a 
 man of honor should." 
 
 "And do you not think that he will feel it 
 now ? " 
 
 " I think not— I hope not. Why should he ? " 
 
 "For the simple i:eason that, if he 'had been 
 two months earlier, everything would have been 
 different." 
 
 " I am not certain of that." She speaks slow- 
 ly, gazing not at her companion, but at the far 
 blue mountains. "I have thought of a great 
 
192 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 many things during the days that I have been 
 sick, and very much alone. I have seemed to see 
 a great deal that I never saw before. My own 
 folly is one of the things. I fancied myself so 
 constant, I was determined not to change. I had 
 an ideal to which I clung — an ideal of the Harry 
 who went away two years ago — and I did not 
 recognize how much the reality must necessarily 
 differ from that. Do you remember saying once 
 that it is well to bring memories as often as possi- 
 ble in contact with realities, and, if they will not 
 stand the test, to let them go ? I have done that, 
 and — have let my memory go." 
 
 There is a minute's silence. Charlton looks at 
 her doubtfully. He distrusts the serenity of her 
 face, the calmness of her tone. These things 
 baffled and deceived him once before, and he fan- 
 cies they are baffling and deceiving him now. He 
 is aware that women often cloak an aching heart 
 under such an exterior as this ; and he knows that 
 Flora Tyrrell is just the woman to do it. But she 
 is not a woman to utter for any purpose or under 
 any provocation that which is not true. Knowing 
 this, he is constrained to believe her ; and yet he 
 doubts if she is not deceiving herself. 
 
 " Do you not think that you may be acting 
 hastily ? " he says, at length. " You are disap- 
 pointed, no doubt, in Harry — disappointed as we 
 are almost certain to be when, after long absence, 
 we see one whom we have invested meanwhile 
 
"0 LAST REGRET, REGRET C.VN DIG." 193 
 
 with all the illusions of love. But do you realize 
 all that your decision means ? You must forgive 
 me if I am presumptuous, but I fear that you are 
 trifling with your happiness, in that ignorance of 
 life which is so common to youth. It is only af- 
 ter a time that we learn how life means for the 
 most of us — compromise. That which we would 
 have we cannot reach ; so that which we can ob- 
 tain we take, and are as contented as our nei^h- 
 bors. We find that our gold is mixed with base 
 metal, and we close our eyes to the unpleasant 
 fact. It is only when we are very young and in- 
 tolerant that we cast it aside, saying that we will 
 have pure gold or none." 
 
 " x\nd the meaning of this is that you think I 
 ought to marry my cousin ? " 
 
 He starts, and the blood comes to his cheek in 
 a dark glow. " It is impossible for me to say 
 that," he answers. " I only fear your falling into 
 a mistake which, recognized too late, may sadden 
 your life." 
 
 "You are very kind," she says, gently ; "you 
 have been so from the first. But do not fear for 
 me. I am making no mistake. I fancied myself 
 very constant, but one changes despite one's self ; 
 and so I find that I have chan2:ed. Durincc these 
 two years Harry and I have drifted farther apart 
 than I ever fancied was possible. If we were 
 foolish enough to think of spending our lives to- 
 gether, I should not suit him any more than he 
 13 
 
194 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 would suit me. It is sad to realize this — but it is 
 true." 
 
 She speaks quietly, but with the same air of 
 fixed decision that was so remarkable in her inter- 
 view with Sunderland. She has plainly taken a 
 resolution which nothing can shake. Her eyes fill 
 with tears. It is, as she says, sad to realize that 
 all is over, that the rude hand of change has 
 touched her boy-lover and herself, that so many 
 fair hopes will perish without any fruition ; but 
 since it is and must be so, she faces it without 
 faltering. Charlton, regarding her keenly, makes 
 only one last effort. 
 
 " Do you not think," he says, " that you might 
 take time — time to test yourself and him ? " 
 
 " Why, that is exactly what has been done," 
 she says. " Time has tested both of us. I should 
 be foolish and weak if I desired any further test. 
 What, ISTellie, have you finished ? Ah, those are 
 lovely ferns ! Now ask Mr. Charlton to lift you 
 up, and let us go down for papa." 
 
 Colonel Tyrrell joins them at the meadow, and 
 they drive home in the lovely evening glow. They 
 find Sunderland, together with Minnie and the 
 boys, on the piazza. He comes forward and as- 
 sists Flora from the wagonette. " I hope you 
 have enjoyed your drive," he says. " I was sorry, 
 when I came back and found you gone, that I had 
 taken your horse. You might have preferred to 
 ride." 
 
"0 LAST REGRET, REGRET CAN DIE." 195 
 
 " No — I was not strong enough," Flora an- 
 swers. She is surprised and relieved by his man- 
 ner, and slips past him into the house with a 
 lighter heart. She does not know that Harry is 
 modeling his conduct on that of Charlton. He 
 would be afraid to flinch — to play the part of dis- 
 consolate lover — before a man who has borne a 
 misfortune similar to his o^\ti with so much phil- 
 osophical composure. 
 
 At sujDper, however, Flora is startled to hear 
 that he means to leave the next day. She looks 
 at him with wistful, astonished eyes. " O Har- 
 ry," she says, " are you really going so soon ? " 
 
 " Yes," answers Harry, with commendable 
 lightness, "I am really going. Have you any 
 commissions that I can execute ? I have a very 
 good taste in feminine attire, though you have 
 never tested it. I think I might even be trusted 
 to buya silk dress. Silvery-blue would suit you, 
 Flora." 
 
 "But it would not suit Transylvania," says 
 Flora, with a tremulous smile. " One needs use- 
 ful and substantial things here." 
 
 After tea is over, the party as usual distribute 
 themselves between the piazza and the sitting- 
 room. Harry, still manfully preserving his non- 
 chalant demeanor, strolls into the latter apartment 
 and asks Flora to sing. "Those charming old 
 Irish and Scotch songs — the Irish especially — that 
 you are so fond of, I don't hear any one else sing 
 
196 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 in these days," he says. " Sing ' Silent, O Moyle, 
 be the sound of thy waters ! ' " 
 
 Flora cannot refuse ; yet, as she sits down to the 
 piano, she is peculiarly averse to singing this song. 
 It is not only heart-breaking in its pathos, but it 
 is connected with her past life more closely, per- 
 haps, than any other. She has sung it for Hany 
 a hundred times, and sung it to herself a hundred 
 times more when thinking of him ; for, despite 
 its sadness, it somehow rose involuntarily to her 
 lips on such occasions. Now to sing it on the eve 
 of his departure, when he may be going away 
 never to return — this, she feels, will be hard. 
 Yet she tries to do it. The first verse she accom- 
 plishes, but over the second she breaks down, and 
 leans forward on the instrument with her tears 
 dropping thick and fast on the ivory keys. 
 
 For a minute Harry is astonished and con- 
 cerned. Then a flash of hope comes to him. He 
 thinks he understands what this emotion means. 
 They chance to be alone in the room. He starts 
 forward, and in a moment his arm is round the 
 drooping girl's figure. 
 
 " Floy, my darling ! " he says, eagerly, " you 
 can't be so hard-hearted after all — you can't mean 
 for me to go ! Think how happy we have been, 
 think how happy we may be. Say but one word, 
 give but one sign of forgiveness, and I will stay." 
 
 It is a minute before Flora can control her 
 voice sufficiently to speak. Then she says : " You 
 
"0 LAST REGRET, REGRET aVN DIE." 197 
 
 are mistaken ; what troubles me is not that. It 
 is — oh ! it is that everything is changed — and 
 changed so inevitably. We have separated so 
 far ; and I fear we must — must separate farther." 
 
 " That is very likely if we part," says Harry ; 
 "but, Flora, you ought to feel, as I do, that we 
 should not part. Dear, trust me again — once 
 again — that is all I ask." 
 
 " O Harry, it is useless to talk like this," says 
 Flora, still struggling with her sobs. " It is not 
 that I don't trust you, but — everything is changed. 
 That is what seems so sad. "We can't — do what 
 we will, we can^t bring back the past ; and the 
 present is so — so mournful ! " 
 
 " We could bring back the past — at least all 
 in the past that was best worth having — if you 
 would listen to me," says Harry — " if you would 
 trust me, if you would love me. O Flora, why 
 don't you see that it is the best chance of our 
 lives you are thrusting away ? " 
 
 " Xo," says Flora. His passionate earnestness 
 restores her to her ordinary composm'e. She 
 draws back from him, but lays one hand on his 
 shoulder, and looks at him with tear-misted e^es. 
 " You are -wrong," she says, " but I am sure you 
 are sincere, and it breaks my heart to deny you 
 what you want — even though you will not want 
 it long. But it is best so — believe me, it is best 
 so. Some day — before long, I hope — you will 
 feel it, and then you will come back, will you not ? 
 
198 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 Then we will put all this folly away, and we shall 
 be brother and sister as we were long ago — O 
 Harry, shall we not ? " 
 
 " Yes," answers Harry, touched and overcome ; 
 " we shall be what you like. Perhaps you are 
 right — perhaps it is best. I am unstable and not 
 worthy of you ; but I shall always love you, 
 Flora, and I shall never forget all that you have 
 been to me from first to last. God bless you, dear, 
 for your sweetness, your tenderness, your faith." 
 
 "And God bless you, Harry, and give you 
 some one to love in earnest," she says. Then, as 
 a step approaches the window, she turns and 
 passes swiftly from the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " SWEET INNISF ALLEN, FAKE THEE WELL ! " 
 
 "In order to make the day's journey with 
 comfort to ourselves and our horses, we must 
 start early to-morrow morning," Harry says to 
 Charlton when they part at night. 
 
 "What do you mean by early?" the other 
 asks. 
 
 " I mean eight o'clock, sharp." 
 " Oh, very well ; that is not terrible." 
 It may not be terrible, but it is nevertheless 
 more than Harry — without that stringent sense 
 
"SWEET IXXISFALLEN, FARE THEE WELL!" 199 
 
 of necessity which taking a raih'oad train entails 
 — can prevail upon himself to do. As a matter 
 of convenience to the travelers, breakfast is served 
 half an hour earlier than usual, and Charlton is 
 ready for it. Not so his companion. That young 
 gentleman appears just as the clock is striking 
 eight, and is greeted with a shout of derision by 
 the younger members of the family. 
 
 " Not but that you are quite right to take 
 your nap out, IlaiTy," says George ; " for if you 
 get off by nine o'clock, you will be lucky. I am 
 just from the stables. Morgan has cast a shoe, 
 and been sent to the blacksmith." 
 
 " The deuce he has ! " says Harry. " Well, 
 my prophetic soul warned me of something of 
 that kind. I felt that there was no good in tear- 
 ing myself out of bed earlier than usual. Thanks, 
 Uncle George ; I'll take a chop. By Jove ! when 
 shall I see such mutton again ? " 
 
 " HaiTy's regrets are very sentimental," saj^s 
 Minnie. 
 
 " They are sincere, at all events," says Harry. 
 " Let me tell you there are worse things in the 
 world to regret than juicy, tender, mountain mut- 
 ton." 
 
 After breakfast, George proposes that they 
 shall go and see after Morgan ; so Harry, light- 
 ing a cigar, strolls stableward with him. Charl- 
 ton declines to accompany them, and postpones 
 his cigar until later. He says to Flora, as they 
 
200 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 stand in the hall together, "Will you walk down 
 to the river with me ? I should like to look at it 
 for the last time." 
 
 " I hope not for the last time," she says. " If 
 you really like Transylvania so much, you will 
 surely come back." 
 
 " I am certain you do not doubt how much I 
 ' really like ' Transylvania," he says ; " but com- 
 ing back is another question. Nothing is more 
 marked in life than the difficulty which attends 
 any attempt to repeat a pleasure. Ah, what a 
 morning ! — what a scene ! And I must turn my 
 back on all this loveliness." 
 
 They have emerged from the house, and de- 
 scend to the lawn as he speaks. Fair and far the 
 level valley spreads before them ; the mountains 
 are di'aped in sparkling haze ; a dewy brightness 
 lies over the scene ; the green hills and shadowy 
 woods wear the indefinable freshness of early 
 morning ; the bright river is full of glancing 
 lights and wavering shadows. They walk down 
 the lawn, and pause on its brink. 
 
 " ' Men may come, and men may go ; but it 
 goes on forever,' " says Charlton. " What pleas- 
 ant days I have spent here ! Miss Tyrrell, you 
 must let me thank you for them once more." 
 
 " Why should you thank me ? " she asks, sim- 
 ply. " You have given me as much or more pleas- 
 ure than you can possibly have received. And 
 if, at any future time, you should care to come 
 
"SWEET IXXISFALLEX, FARE THEE WELL!" 201 
 
 back, we shall be very glad to see you. I cannot 
 say more than that — we have so little to offer." 
 
 " Beware of false humility ! " he says, smiling. 
 " You know — or ought to know — that you have 
 everything to offer. I know it, at least. Yet 
 I do not think I shall come back." 
 
 She does not say anything, but she looks at 
 him with so much wistful distress in her glance — 
 a glance which says, " Is it Zwho have made you 
 form this resolution ? " — that he feels impelled to 
 answer it by an explanation. 
 
 " Don't think that I say so because I have not 
 succeeded in winning your heart. This is some- 
 thing which cannot be helped, and which leaves 
 no bitter memory whatever. Do you know that 
 I pay you a high compliment in saying so ? Do 
 you know that there are few women whom a man 
 can love, by whom he could be rejected, and yet 
 around whom he could find pleasure in lingering 
 as I have lingered here ? There are still fewer 
 who could pass through such an ordeal without 
 waking some angry or disgusted chord of feeling. 
 But I was thinking last night as I smoked my 
 final cigar — not a bad time for meditation, let me 
 assure you — how entirely you have done this. I 
 shall carry away a recollection of you which is 
 without a flaw. Even my love for you has seemed 
 altogether above the passion which often bears 
 that name. I shall look back upon this summer 
 as on a time set apart in my life — an idyl in the 
 
202 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 midst of jarring prose ; and hence I should be 
 loath to come back and spoil its memory by bring- 
 ing reality, with I know not how much change 
 involved, to bear upon it." 
 
 " But that — that is morbid ! " cries Flora, with 
 a cadence of triumph in her quivering voice. 
 " The very thing against which you warned me, 
 and now you are guilty of it yourself ! Is that 
 the way philosophers practise their precepts ? " 
 
 " Very often, I fear. But since this is our last 
 tete-d-tete, and since I am confessing everything, 
 let me say that this which I have mentioned is 
 not my only reason for saying I shall not return. 
 To go away to-day is not only a wrench, but I 
 shall have a sharp fight for many days to come 
 with longing and regret. Now, when a man 
 reaches my age, he knows that such things are 
 not trifles. They unsettle one's life, distract one's 
 mind, and very seriously interfere with one's 
 power of working. Honestly, I can't afford to be 
 wretched ; so, when I have fought my fight, and 
 won peace back — as I shall do, after a fashion — I 
 shall not endanger it by returning here. A re- 
 lapse is said to be worse than the original dis- 
 
 ease." 
 
 Flora scarcely knows whether to laugh or to 
 cry at the coolness and unmistakable sincerity of 
 this speech. A duller woman might take its re- 
 straint as the token of a shallow sentiment, but 
 she is not likely to fall into such an error. She 
 
"SWEET INNISFALLEN, FARE THEE WELL!" 203 
 
 not only remembers the familiar proverb that 
 " Still waters run deep," but, with the quick in- 
 stinct of a sympathetic nature, she feels that it is 
 no schoolboy passion which Charlton talks of 
 conquering. His quietness, instead of deceiving, 
 touches her more deeply than any vehemence 
 could do. No woman likes a man the less for 
 being master of himself, even where she is con- 
 cerned. 
 
 " I suppose it is strange, and not according to 
 precedent, that you should tell me all this," she 
 says, after a while. " I scarcely know how to an- 
 swer you. I only know that I am sorry — very 
 sorry — if we are not to meet again." 
 
 " We may meet accidentally," he says, trying 
 to speak lightly. " Don't fancy for a moment 
 that I should not be delighted at such an acci- 
 dent. I only meant that I should not come back 
 here — like a moth to the lio:ht which has sinj^ed 
 it." 
 
 " Then you are not likely to meet me. My 
 life lies here." 
 
 " But it will not lie here always." 
 
 " I think most ^^I'obably that it will." 
 
 He glances at her. " Then you are quite de- 
 termined with regard to Harry. You will give 
 him no hope ? " 
 
 " I thought I answered that question yester- 
 day afternoon." 
 
 " In that case," he says, quickly, " I am forced 
 
204 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 to ask you once more if there is any hope for me f 
 No doubt it is folly, but at least I shall know the 
 worst, and I cannot torment myself hereafter by 
 thinking : ' If I had spoken again I might have 
 won at least a chance.' " 
 
 " What do you mean by a chance ? " she asks, 
 in a low tone. 
 
 " I mean time and opportunity in which to en- 
 deavor to win your heart," he answers, a thrill of 
 sudden hope passing through him and sending a 
 glow to his eyes and the blood to his cheek. " I 
 know you do not love me now — " 
 
 " No," she says, as he breaks off. " I like 
 you very much indeed, but I do not love you. 
 At least " — she hesitates — " that is what I think. 
 Perhaps I do not know what love really is." 
 
 " You would know it if you felt it," he says. 
 " I did not expect any other answer. It would 
 not be natural or characteristic for you to turn to 
 me now. Your mind and your heart have been 
 full of other things. But if you can give me the 
 slightest hope — " 
 
 " I am afraid to give you that," she says, after 
 a pause which he feels to be very long. " I fear 
 misleading you ; I fear giving you further pain. 
 I am not certain of myself. After all, it may be 
 safest for you to forget all about me — as you 
 spoke of doing." 
 
 " And as I never shall do ! " he says, with a 
 passionate impetuosity that astonishes her. " Don't 
 
" SWEET INNISFALLEN, FARE THEE WELL ! " 205 
 
 you feel that ? Don't you know that you have 
 twined yourself for good or for ill about my life ? 
 I say for ill only in case I can neither win you 
 nor forget you. But, if you will give me a shi-ed of 
 hope, I will come back and try my fate once more." 
 
 Silence falls. Many a woman, who has been 
 in Flora's position, will understand the conflict of 
 doubt which made her uncertain what to answer. 
 It is a more common state of mind than people 
 think. When this issue comes — an issue involv- 
 ing the whole course and meaning of life — a 
 woman is not always provided with fitting Yes 
 or Xo. Her heart is often an enigma even to 
 herself ; her wishes are chaos. Flora looks in 
 troubled silence at the emerald current flowing 
 s^viftly by under the drooping trees. What shall 
 we say? How can she be truthful and yet not 
 imply too much ? At last she says, slowly : 
 
 " You should not ask this of me. It is im- 
 possible for me to give you hope. I should never 
 forgive myself if I did so — only to disappoint 
 you at last. Perhaps it is best to part as you 
 meant to do. Put me out of your mind — or, 
 rather, out of your heart ; but pray do not for- 
 get that I shall always remember how kind, how 
 considerate, how unselfish a friend you have been." 
 
 He looks at her with a keen scrutiny of which 
 she is conscious, yet which she feels no inclination 
 to resent. He knows as much of her as she knows 
 of herself — and is welcome to make what he can 
 
206 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 of the unknown remainder. This is what she 
 thinks, and, while she thinks it, Charlton is bring- 
 ing to bear upon her all the force of observation 
 and intuition which he possesses by nature, or has 
 acquired through art. He knows that on the re- 
 sult of this observation everything depends now. 
 He must decide for himself — and that speedily — 
 whether or not this woman is ever likely to learn 
 to love him. N^o need to waste time and passion, 
 hope and endeavor, if she is not likely to learn 
 that lesson. On the contrary, if she is, the best 
 chance of both their lives lies now in his grasp. 
 The responsibility, the doubt, the sense of all that 
 is involved, make his heart for a moment abso- 
 lutely seem to stand still. The indications by 
 which he must judge are so slight ; and, if he mis- 
 takes, the mistake can be made but once. 
 
 Upon this hesitation, a voice from the house 
 breaks sharply. "Mr. Charlton," shouts George, 
 " is your trunk ready to be taken down ? " 
 
 "Quite ready," Charlton answers. Then he 
 turns to Flora with sudden resolution. After all, 
 the chance, however vague, is worth a trial. An 
 instinct comes to him that this is his best hope in 
 life, and he is not the man to let that which is 
 best slip from his grasp for lack of earnest hold- 
 ing. 
 
 "I have decided," he says. "I shall come 
 back. You are bound to nothing — you have not 
 uttered one word or given one hope for which you 
 
" SWEET IXXISFALLEX, FARE THEE WELL ! " 207 
 
 can hereafter, in any event, reproach yourself — 
 but I shall come back. Are you soiTy to hear 
 that ? " 
 
 " Sorry — no ! How could I be ? " she answers. 
 Her voice quivers, something like relief comes 
 over her. She is not to lose her friend. That is 
 the first thought which occurs to her. 
 
 " Remember you are not bound to anything — 
 not even to listen, if you don't feel inclined," he 
 says. " The risk is mine — and mine alone. But 
 I am willing to take it. He who dives for a pearl 
 cannot be sure of finding it ; but he dives nev- 
 ertheless. So I shall dive and hope to find my 
 pearl. If I fail — well, even in that there will be 
 consolation. 
 
 " ' 'Tis somewhat to have known, albeit in vain, 
 One woman in this sorrowful bad earth, 
 Whose very loss can yet bequeath to pain 
 New faith in worth.' " 
 
 " Oh, how you overrate me ! " she cries, with 
 a thrill in her voice. " "What an unintentional 
 hypocrite I have been to make you think so much 
 better of me than I deserve ! " 
 
 " A very unconscious hypocrite indeed ! " he 
 says, smiling. " Now I fear that we must go back 
 to the house. I see that the wagonette has come 
 round to the door. I have only one more request 
 to make — may I wTite to you ? " 
 
 She hesitates only a second before saying ; 
 
208 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 " Yes — if you have time to do so." 
 
 " Ah, I shall find time," he says. " Don't you 
 fancy that you are likely to escape on that score. 
 You will receive a letter once a week — will that 
 be too often ? And in answering them — ^you 
 loill answer them, will you not ? — pray tell me 
 everything about yourself and all the household. 
 No detail will be too trivial to interest me — not 
 even ISTellie's and Oscar's escapades. You can't 
 tell how often I shall think of this idyllic, pastoral 
 life, or how welcome any breath of it will be on 
 the feverish and tumultuous existence to which I 
 am going." 
 
 " I may write now and then if you really de- 
 sire it," says Flora, "but once a week is over- 
 whelming. I should have nothing to say." 
 
 " I did not mean to ask that yon would write 
 once a week. Write when you feel inclined, and 
 only then. Meanwhile — 
 
 " Charlton," shouts Sunderland, " everything 
 is ready. Come on ! " 
 
 That voice seems to bring Flora back to her- 
 self. " O," she says, clasping her hands, "remem- 
 ber I have not promised anything — not anything 
 at all — and 2>'^ciy don't hope too much ! " 
 
 " I have very little hope," Charlton answers, 
 " but a great deal of resolve. Don't trouble your- 
 self. I remember that you have not promised — " 
 
 " Charlton ! " shouts Harry from the piazza. 
 
 " It is I who am detaining you," says Flora, 
 
"SWEET IXXISFALLEX, FARE THEE WELL!" 209 
 
 turning hurriedly. "Come — we must go back. 
 Ah, how dreary parting is ! " 
 
 Harry regards them suspiciously when they 
 reach the piazza, but is forced to admit that their 
 manner is very unlike that of people who have 
 been interrupted in the exchange of tender vows 
 or passionate farewells. Charlton goes at once 
 to tighten a strap on his trunk ; Flora turns to her 
 cousin. 
 
 " Dear Hany," she says, " pray do not let it 
 be two years again before you come back. You 
 cannot tell how we shall long to see you." 
 
 The true tender voice touches Harry's warm 
 heart. " It shall not be two years again, Floy " 
 he says. " I promise you that. And when I come 
 back I mean to make you forget everything disa- 
 greeable connected with me, and remember only 
 the pleasant things." 
 
 "I have done that already," she says. "I re- 
 member nothing which you need wish me to for- 
 get. God bless you, Harry — good-by." 
 
 He kisses her as a brother might, then wrings 
 his uncle's hand. "I'll come back before long, 
 uncle George," he says, "and I can never forget 
 your kindness — never as long as I live ! " 
 
 The other adieux are quickly made, after which 
 it is Charlton's turn. He shakes hands with Colo- 
 nel Tyrrell warmly, thanks the latter for his invi- 
 tation to return, and says that he may avail him- 
 14 
 
210 A SUMMER IDYL. 
 
 self of it for a short time next summer. Then he 
 bids the rest a cordial farewell and comes to Flora 
 last. He holds her hand tightly for a minute, and 
 is strongly tempted to kiss it ; but too many eyes 
 are looking on — he restrains the impulse, and only 
 takes one long intent gaze into the blue depths of 
 her eyes. " Good-by ! " he says. " I shall not 
 forget. Remember that you have promised to 
 write to me." 
 
 The next minute the wagonette is driving off, 
 hats are waving, last words are uttered. The 
 gate is opened and shut with a clang ; the wheels 
 roll out. Mechanically Flora sits down on the 
 steps where she is standing. All is over. They 
 are gone. 
 
 The road to Brevard, and thence to Asheville, 
 leads away from the river ; but Charlton turns as 
 they pass out of the gate for one last glimpse of 
 the valley. He never forgets the picture which 
 this last glance leaves on his mind. The far blue 
 heights seem steeped in soft repose ; dapjDling 
 cloud-shadows are lightly falling over the w^ooded 
 sides of the nearer hills ; the great sweep of fields 
 and meadows, and the winding foliage that fringes 
 the river, with the golden sunshine of Septem- 
 ber lying over all, are almost magical in their fair- 
 ness. 
 
 ^^ Et in Arcadia egof'' he says to himself. 
 " To-morrow how far I shall be away ! Shall I 
 
"SWEET INNISFALLEN, FARE THEE WELL!" 211 
 
 ever return ? Who can say ? But summer will 
 
 come again, and then " 
 
 Yes, summer will come again, and then, per- 
 haps, on some green hillside, or by the banks of 
 the beautiful French Broad, the idyl may be told 
 of which all that is written here may stand only 
 as a preface. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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