At the farther end was a fine waterfall,—a whole river, suddenly appearing, after a mile or so of underground coursing, to take one grand leap of seventy or eighty feet into a dull black pool, with crash and roar and perpetual splash of foam, thence vanishing underground once more for at least another mile. A gleam of light seemed to come down from above the fall, obviating entire darkness.
Sir Keith guided me carefully down the lower rocky steps, till we reached a platform near the fall,—not quite the nearest possible. There we stood in silence. It was very solemn, very impressive. The air was full of reeking moisture from the incessant rebound of spray; and the steady roar never faltered. The dim light too, and the whiteness of the rushing water, in contrast with the piled-up massive dark rocks around, were not to be soon forgotten.
I heard Sir Keith say suddenly—
"Yes,—Thyrza ought to see this."
"She would appreciate it," I replied.
"She has learnt to appreciate—from you," he said; and before I could answer, he added—"She owes much to you. Thyrza herself says so."
"Thyrza is a dear girl," I said, rather absently, I am afraid. My attention was riveted on the fall.
"Miss Conway, will you give me your advice?" came next in distinct tones.
"You, Sir Keith!" I glanced at him involuntarily.
"Yes, I—myself," he answered; and to my astonishment I saw that the falling foam was scarcely whiter than his face. "I can never get a word alone with you for three minutes."