"You find it to your liking?"

A voice, fresh, gay, interrupted; with a great start, he turned.

Jocelyn Wray, for it was she, laughed; so absorbed had he been, he had
not heard her light footstep on the grass behind.

"You find it to your liking?" she repeated, tilting quizzically her fair
head.

His face changing, "Entirely!" he managed to say. And then, "I--did not
know you were near."

"No? But I could see that. Confess," with accent a little derisory, "I
startled you." As she spoke she leaned slightly back against the low
stone wall of the churchyard; the shifting light through the leaves
played over her; her eyes seemed to dance in consonance with that
movement.

"Perhaps," he confessed.

The girl laughed again; one would have sworn there was; oy in her voice.
"You must have been much absorbed," she continued, "in the view!"

"It is very fine." He saw now more clearly the picture she made: the
details of her dress, the slender figure, closely sheathed in a garb of
blue lighter in shade than her eyes.

She put out her hand. "I am forgetting--you came down with my uncle, I