the sun sinks at the end of the day swathed about with purple and
azure.



One warm August evening in 1821 two people were climbing the paths cut
in the crags above the chateau, doubtless for the sake of the view
from the heights above. The two were Julie and Lord Grenville, but
this Julie seemed to be a new creature. The unmistakable color of
health glowed in her face. Overflowing vitality had brought a light
into her eyes, which sparkled through a moist film with that liquid
brightness which gives such irresistible charm to the eyes of
children. She was radiant with smiles; she felt the joy of living and
all the possibilities of life. From the very way in which she lifted
her little feet, it was easy to see that no suffering trammeled her
lightest movements; there was no heaviness nor languor in her eyes,
her voice, as heretofore. Under the white silk sunshade which screened
her from the hot sunlight, she looked like some young bride beneath
her veil, or a maiden waiting to yield to the magical enchantments of
Love.

Arthur led her with a lover's care, helping her up the pathway as if
she had been a child, finding the smoothest ways, avoiding the stones
for her, bidding her see glimpses of distance, or some flower beside
the path, always with the unfailing goodness, the same delicate design
in all that he did; the intuitive sense of this woman's wellbeing
seemed to be innate in him, and as much, nay, perhaps more, a part of
his being as the pulse of his own life.

The patient and her doctor went step for step. There was nothing