Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
... Far off, three mountain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flushed; and, dewed with showery drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.”
“You will not be a true lotos-eater till you are there once more,” said Cecil, glancing at him. For his dreamy content was gone, and a wistfulness which she quite understood had taken its place. “Don’t you think now that all is so different, you might perhaps go there next summer?” she added.
“No,” he replied, “you must not tempt me. I will not go back till I am a free man and can look every one in the face. The prospect of being free so much sooner than I had expected ought to be enough to satisfy me. Suppose we build castles in the air; that is surely the right thing to do on Christmas eve. When at last these debts are cleared, let us all go to Norway together. I know Mr. Boniface would be enchanted with it, and you, you did not see nearly all that you should have seen. You must see the Romsdal and the Geiranger, and we must show you Oldören, where we so often spent the summer holiday.”
“How delightful it would be!” said Cecil.
“Don’t say ‘would,’ say ‘will,’” he replied. “I shall not thoroughly enjoy it unless we all go together, a huge party.”
“I think we should be rather in the way,” she said. “You would have so many old friends out there, and would want to get rid of us. Don’t you remember the old lady who was so outspoken at Balholm when we tried to be friendly and not to let her feel lonely and out of it?”