So he closed the door and left her. An hour passed away; he looked in
again; there she was still--in the same place, in the same attitude.

"Sophy, dear, it is time to take your walk; go--Mrs. Morley is in front,
before my window. I have called to her to wait for you."

"Yes--presently," answered Sophy, and she did not move.

Waife was seriously alarmed. He paused a moment-then went back to his
room--took his hat and his staff--came back.

"Sophy, I should like to hobble out and breathe the air; it will do me
good. Will you give me your arm? I am still very weak."

Sophy now started--shook back her fair curls-rose-put on her bonnet, and
in less than a minute was by the old man's side. Drawing his arm fondly
into hers, they descend the stairs; they are in the garden; Mrs. Morley
comes to meet them--then George. Wife exerts himself to talk--to be gay
--to protect Sophy's abstracted silence by his own active, desultory,
erratic humour. Twice or thrice, as he leans on Sophy's arm, she draws
it still nearer to her, and presses it tenderly. She understands--she
thanks him. Hark! from some undiscovered hiding-place near the water--
Fairthorn's flute! The music fills the landscape as with a living
presence; the swans pause upon the still lake--the tame doe steals
through yonder leafless trees; and now, musing and slow, from the same
desolate coverts, comes the doe's master. The music spells them all.
Guy Darrell sees his guests where they have halted by the stone sun-dial.
He advances--joins them--congratulates Waife on his first walk as a
convalescent. He quotes Gray's well-known verses applicable to that
event, and when, in that voice sweet as the flute itself, he comes to the