mere dumb picture. I suppose even my memory of her will grow fainter and
fainter, founded as it is on imperfect understanding, dim appreciation.
She used to read Italian to me--first the Italian, then the English--
and I thought it, as often as not, a bore to have to listen to her!
Thank Heaven, I have the book she used, and can now go over the pieces,
and try to recall her voice.'

The butterfly was gone, but the bee still hummed about them. The hot
afternoon air was unstirred by any breeze.

'How glad I am,' Wilfrid exclaimed when he had brooded for a few
moments, 'that I happened to see you as I rode past! I should have
wandered restlessly about the house in vain, seeking for some one to
talk to. And you listen so patiently. It is pleasant to be here and talk
so freely of things I have always had to keep in my own mind. Look, do
look at that bastion of cloud over the sycamore! What glorious gradation
of tints! What a snowy crown!'

'That is a pretty spray,' he added, holding to her one that he had
plucked.

She looked at it; then, as he still held It out, took it from him. The
exquisite fingers touched his own redder and coarser ones.

'Have you friends in Dunfield?' he asked.

'Friends?'

'Any real friend, I mean--any girl who gives you real companionship?'