flows, and the things, strange sweet things that were locked up in it, it
sings as it runs, for love of him. Each plant tries to bear at least one
fragrant little flower for him; and the world that was dead lives, and the
heart that was dead and self-centred throbs, with an upward, outward
yearning, and it has become that which it seemed impossible ever to become.
There, does that satisfy you?" she asked, looking down at Gregory. "Is
that how you like me to talk?"

"Oh, yes," said Gregory, "that is what I have already thought. We have the
same thoughts about everything. How strange!"

"Very," said Lyndall, working with her little toe at a stone in the ground
before her.

Gregory felt he must sustain the conversation. The only thing he could
think of was to recite a piece of poetry. He knew he had learnt many about
love; but the only thing that would come into his mind now was the "Battle
of Hohenlinden," and "Not a drum was heard," neither of which seemed to
bear directly on the subject on hand.

But unexpected relief came to him from Doss, who, too deeply lost in
contemplation of his crevice, was surprised by the sudden descent of the
stone Lyndall's foot had loosened, which, rolling against his little front
paw, carried away a piece of white-skin. Doss stood on three legs, holding
up the paw with an expression of extreme self-commiseration; he then
proceeded to hop slowly upward in search of sympathy.

"You have hurt that dog," said Gregory.

"Have I?" she replied indifferently, and re-opened the book, as though to