still blue water, to the graceful hanging
woods, and heathery sheep-dotted slopes on
the other side. What could I do? My
heart was swelling, my eyes kindling and
dilating, my cheek flushing and chilling—I
clasped my hands tightly together, almost as
if in pain.

At that moment Harold came up, with a
bright, laughing face, and hurrying step, and
eyes fixed only on me.

I turned to him; I remember he stopped
and looked at me wonderingly; I did not
notice that then; I uttered a little of
my admiration and delight, in words that
seemed to me mockingly poor and feeble.
I looked up in my husband's face for
sympathy: he smiled down on me, kindly as
ever; but somehow my haughty spirit rose
up in arms against that smile; a flashing
look of something like disdain aimed at him
fell back on me, paining only my own heart,
and a miserable doubt and dread darted
through me.

Breakfast was ready, the urn waiting, and
the salmon steaks on the table, Harold said.
So I walked in beside him, not taking his
offered arm, pretending not to see it.

The day was very warm and lovely, and
we spent it on the water. We had hired a
light little boat; Harold rowed it across to
the other side; we explored that shore a little,
then we moored our boat to the stump of a
felled tree, and sat in it under the shade of
the wood that hung far over the marge. We
enjoyed the gentle rocking motion, the sound
of the ripple against the side, and the delicious
freshness of the light breeze that came
up from the sea, and breathed upon our faces.
We talked little, and very softly. I had
taken off my hat for coolness, and I sat in the
bottom of our boat, resting my head against
my husband's knee. I liked to feel his hand
every now and then, passed caressingly and
lovingly over my hair.

"Shall I read to you, Harold?" I asked,
after we had sat so a long while, and I fancied
he might be wearying of idleness, though I
was not. Already I consciously recognised a
difference between us.

"If you like, Annie," he answered; "if it
won't tire you; but it is very hot."

I produced my treasured book, the book
he had given me. I told him how beautiful
it was, how much he would like it; and then
I began to read. I read in a low subdued
voice: I did not want to break in upon the
harmony of the soft music made by wind and
water.

How quietly I went on, and yet how
deeply and troublously the poet's thoughts
moved me! Sometimes I felt my cheek grow
chill, and my eyes dim with tears, as some
passage thrilled through me.

After I had read some time, I glanced
round.

"Is not that true? Have we not felt it?"
I said, looking up to my husband's face,
seeking to meet its expression of emotion and
pleasure.

His eyes were closed, his arm rested on
some cushion he had brought for me, and I
had not cared to use; his head was thrown
back upon that arm, and he was fast asleep!
I looked at him long, half in anger, half in
love. I see the face now as it looked then.
His sleep was child-like in its perfect repose;
his brow was so smooth, his mouth so quietly
happy in its expression, his breathing so low
and regular. At least he must be dreaming
some beautiful dream—dreaming only of me,
perhaps, I thought.

I had lifted my head from its resting-place,
I did not replace it; I sat quite erect, and
kept myself very still. I put a fern-leaf,
from a bunch of them I had in my hat, to
mark the place where I had left off reading,
and then closed my book. For some time I
sat watching the ripples in the waters, and
listening to Harold's breathing, with a cloudy
face, and a heart that had not quite made up
its resolve whether or no to resent this
neglect. I got tired of sitting in dignified
rigidity. I leaned over the boat's side, and
amused myself with the broken reflections
of my face and hands in the water;
with splashing it up softly to my forehead,
and seeing the separate drops, pear-like, fall
back upon the face of the loch. And I
thought of Undine and water-sprites, good
and ill, and tried to look to the bottom of
the water, that seemed to repel my glances,
by flashing back its own brightness dazzlingly
on my eyes,—and imagined the sights fair
and foul that might lie there, till I almost
saw strange eyes and hands, gazing at me,
and beckoning to me, from below. Then,
I drew back to the other side, and folding
my hands, gave myself up to day-dreaming.
I knew it must be quite late in the
afternoon, now; the wind had quite died
away, the water did not ripple, our boat did
not stir, there was a great dream-silence,
under-toned by the faint hum and buzz of
insects in the near wood.

A very audible yawn and noise of stretching
and stirring, told me that my husband
was waking at last. The noise broke in
jarringly upon my delicious dreaming, it was
so loud! I did not look up or speak, but
sat looking straight before me far away.

"Why I have been asleep, I declare!"
Harold exclaimed. "It is just five o'clock.
Why didn't you wake me, Annie? You
should have thrown some water in my face.
You have been sitting there, quiet and patient,
waiting for your lord's awakening, eh, you
darling little mouse? How stupid you must
have thought me?"

"I was very well amused," I answered,
coldly.

"How? Reading, I suppose?"

"No; with my own thoughts."

"Your own thoughts, you saucy girl?
Have you anything belonging to yourself,