CHAPTER XXVI.

JULIAN.


NEXT day, a fine summer afternoon, when our feeble convalescents had
gone out together, they found the fresh air so invigorating, and
themselves so much stronger, that they prolonged their walk half-way to
Oxton. The pasture-meadows, rich and rank, were alive with flocks and
herds; the blue sea lazily beat time, as, ticking out the seconds, it
melodiously broke upon the sleeping shore; the darkly-flowing Mullet
swept sounding to the sea between its tortuous banks; and upon that old
high foot-path skirting the stream, now shady with hazels, and now
flowery with meadow-sweet, crept our chastened pair.

Just as they were nearing a short angle in the river, the spot where
Charles had been preserved, they noticed for the first time a
rough-looking fisherman, who, unseen, had tracked their steps some
hundred yards; he had a tarpaulin over his shoulder, very unnecessarily,
as it would seem, on so fine and warm a day; and a slouching
sou'-wester, worn askew, flapped across the strange man's face.

He came on quickly, though cautiously, looking right and left; and Emily
trembled on her guardian's feeble arm. Yes--she is right; the fisherman
approaches--she detects him through it all: and now he scorns disguise;
flinging off his cap and the tarpaulin, stands before them--Julian!