"Your father is quite right, Miss Maliphant," said he. "Books are of little use till tested by practical knowledge; but after all, if they are good books, they were written from practical knowledge, you know, and perhaps it would take one a lifetime to reap the individual knowledge of all that they have swept together."
"I only know what father said," repeated I, half sullenly.
"Perhaps you don't remember it all," said he. "I think your father would agree with me this time; he is a very wise man, and I fancy I have stated the case pretty fairly."
"I should think he was a wise man!" I exclaimed, and I think my pride was pardonable this time. "All the country-side knows that."
"I know it," he answered. "One can't go into a cottage without hearing him spoken of with love and reverence."
"Yes; I never saw any one so sorry for people as father is," answered I. "I'm frightened of people who are ill and unhappy; but father—he wants to help them—well, just as I wanted to help the beasts and birds," I ended up with a laugh.
As I spoke the curious twittering note of the female cuckoo sounded in one of the trees upon the cliff, and immediately from four different quarters, one after the other, the reply came in the two distinct notes of the male bird. I stood still upon the path, and looked about me. The sound, and perhaps partly what I had just said, reminded me of one of the objects of my walk.
"I declare I had almost forgotten," I cried, and without another word of explanation I dashed up the bank of the cliff, Taff following.
Mr. Harrod stood below on the path. A few minutes more were enough to enable me to find the bush, which I had marked with a bit of the braid off my cloak on that memorable evening a few nights ago.