Each realized that this little jaunt into the mountains was their last together; that it constituted a sort of farewell to their happy life of the past summer and to each other. Each was thinking of their first meeting under the pines on that evening gorgeous with the sunset rays and sweet with the breath of June roses.
At last they turned into a trail which soon grew so steep and narrow that they dismounted, and, fastening their ponies, proceeded up the trail on foot. Slowly they wended their way upward, pausing at length on a broad, projecting ledge a little below the summit, where they seated themselves on the rocks to rest a while. Kate's eyes wandered afar over the wonderful scene before them, wrapped in unbroken silence, yet palpitating in the mellow, golden sunlight with a mysterious life and beauty all its own.
But Darrell was for once oblivious to the scene; his eyes were fastened on Kate's face, a look in them of insatiable hunger, as though he were storing up the memory of every line and lineament against the barren days to come. He wondered if the silent, calm-faced, self-contained woman beside him could be the laughing, joyous maiden whom he had seen flitting among the trees and fountains at their first meeting little more than three months past. He recalled how he had then thought her unlike either her father or her aunt, and believed her to be wholly without their self-restraint and self-repression. Now he saw that the same stoical blood was in her veins. Already the sensitive, mobile face, which had mirrored every emotion of the impulsive, sympathetic soul within, bore something of the impassive calm of the rocks surrounding them; it might have been chiselled in marble, so devoid was it at that moment of any trace of feeling.
A faint sigh seemed to break the spell, and she turned facing him with her old-time sunny smile.
"What a regal day!" she exclaimed.
"It is," he replied; "it was on such a day as this, about a year ago, that I first met Mr. Britton. He called it, I remember, one of the 'coronation days' of the year. I have been reminded of the phrase and of him all day."
"Dear Mr. Britton," said Kate, "I have not seen him for more than two years. He has always been like a second father to me; he used to have me call him 'papa' when I was little, and I've always loved him next to papa. You and he correspond, do you not?"
"Yes; he writes rather irregularly, but his letters are precious to me. He was the first to make me feel that this cramped fettered life of mine held any good or anything worth living for. He made me ashamed of my selfish sorrow, and every message from him, no matter how brief, seems like an inspiration to something higher and nobler."
"He makes us all conscious of our selfishness," Kate answered, "for if ever there was an unselfish life,—a life devoted to the alleviation of the sufferings and sorrows of others,—it is his. I wish he were here now," she added, with a sigh; "he has more influence with papa than all the rest of us combined, though perhaps nothing even he might say would be availing in this instance."