She looked down upon the hands holding hers. In each of the little
fingers there was a small amusing deformity--a slight crook or
twist--which, as is the way of lovers, was especially dear to her. She
remembered once, before they were engaged, flaming out at Bridget, who
had made mock of it. She stooped now, and kissed the fingers. Then she
bowed her forehead upon them.

'George!'--he could only just hear her--'I know Miss Martin will be
kind to me--and I shall find plenty to do. You're never to worry about
me.'

'I won't--so long as you write to me--every day.'

There was again a silence. Then she lifted her head, and as the boat
swung out of the shadow, the moonlight caught her face.

'You'll take that Wordsworth I gave you, won't you, George? It'll remind
you--of this.' Her gesture showed the lake and the mountains.

'Of course, I shall take it. I shall read it whenever I can--perhaps
more for your sake--than Wordsworth's.'

'It'll make us remember the same things,' she murmured.

'As if we wanted anything to make us remember!'

'George!' her voice was almost a sob--'It's been almost too perfect.
Sometimes--just for that--I'm afraid.'