For quite twenty seconds there was a dead silence, a silence only broken by the trickling of a snow-born mountain stream, passing lingeringly through the ferns and orchids—who seemed to stoop and bend over—listening intently to its timid silvery song.
“How changed he was!” thought Honor, with a queer tight feeling in her throat, “only three short months, and the bright look of buoyant youth had faded from his face.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed, with a supreme effort. “I had a presentiment that I should see you soon—I dreamt it!”
“Dreams sometimes go by contraries,” he answered, with a rather fixed smile.
“And how clever of Tommy to find you! The dear dog remembered you.”
“Well, up to the present he has not shown any symptoms of recognizing me; on the contrary, he has cut me dead. He is in hot pursuit of some venerable lumgoors. How long is it since he has seen me?” asked Mark.
“The day of the bachelors’ ball. I recollect you gave him a méringue, and very nearly killed him! It was on the eighth of June. This is the tenth of September; just three months and two days.”
“So it is,” he acquiesced, with forced nonchalance.
“Do you live near here?” she continued.
“About four miles, by a goat path across that hill.”