Madeline was perfectly happy; & if Guy was not as happy as she, he was in a better mood than he had been for many a day, & the bright morning air, the beautiful scenery, the sweet English face at his side, warmed him more & more into hearty enjoyment. As they walked, the flower-basket was filled with new trophies; & when they reached their destination, Guy spread Madeline’s shawl under a nut-tree, & sat down by her side to sketch. “Why not take a drawing lesson today?” he said, as she watched him pointing his pencils & making his slight preparations. “I think one could learn anything in such beautiful weather.” “I had rather watch you,” said Madeline, “& you know I have to arrange my flowers too. Oh, what a beautiful day!” “Perfect. I didn’t know what an attractive little nook Interlaken is before.” “And you are going tomorrow?” asked Madeline, dropping her lashes. “I think so. Every artist is at heart a wanderer—begging Pope’s pardon for taking such a liberty with his line. There, Miss Graham, what do you think of those outlines?” “How quick you are! Oh, how cleverly you have done it.” Guy laughed. “Such injudicious praise as yours would soon spoil me,” he said. “I suppose so,” Madeline returned naively. “You know I am so ignorant.” Guy went on with his sketch; he revelled in the deep, luxurious Summer silence, the whisper of the leaves above his head, the easy consciousness that if he did lift his eyes from his work they would meet nothing less in harmony with the radiant day than Madeline Graham’s fair, sweet face bent above her flowers. Now & then, as the sketch grew beneath his quick pencil, she offered her shy criticism or her shyer praise; but for the most part they were silent, as though afraid by word or movement to break the spell of peacefulness that had fallen upon them. It was not until they had again reached the gate of the Hôtel garden, that either reverted to Guy’s coming departure. “I am glad that our last walk has been so pleasant,” he said. “I wonder how many more walks you will take after I am gone.” “You are really going?” He saw the colour creep upwards, & the long lashes tremble. “I had intended to go,” he answered, leaning against the gate. “I suppose—I suppose it has grown dull,” murmured Madeline. “It has grown so pleasant that I wish I had not reached my limit,” said Guy. “When a man proposes to spend two days at a place, & lengthens his visit to nearly two weeks, as I have done, he must begin to consider how much time he has left for the rest of his tour.” “We shall miss you,” ventured Madeline, overwhelmed with blushes. “Papa, I mean, will…” “Won’t you miss me?” said Guy, very low. Madeline’s half-averted cheek turned a deeper crimson; her heart was beating stormily, & everything seemed to swim before her. “I don’t know,” she whispered, tremblingly. In any other person, at any other time, such an answer would have been bête; in Madeline Graham, with the sunset light striking her pale golden braids, & the church-bells coming softly through the sweet evening air, as they stood by the gate, it seemed to Guy Hastings very sweet & musical. “If I thought you would miss me I should be almost glad to go,” he said, quietly. “And yet, I do not know why I go. It is so peaceful here, that I feel as if life were worth a little—if I go, I shall probably do my best to tumble down a ravine.” Madeline lifted her blue eyes in wonderment; she had never heard him speak so before. “Yes,” he went on, “You do not know what it is to feel that everything is worthless & heartless, as I have done. I envy you. I almost wish that I were going to stay here.” He paused; &, moved by the weary sadness which his voice & words had for the first time betrayed, Madeline gathered heart to say, holding out her hand: “I don’t understand, but I am very sorry for you.