A strange, dreamy, unreal feeling crept over Christine as she leant back in the stern, while Macneillie with his strong arms rowed her up the winding river. She almost wished his strokes had not been so long and steady, for it seemed to her as if this heaven of peace and repose would end too swiftly. At last he paused.
“We couldn’t well find a more lovely place than this,” he said glancing over his shoulder and dexterously guiding the boat in between the grassy bank and the branches of an overhanging willow tree.
“I never saw such a wonderful colour as these new spring shoots of the willow,” said Christine, as he drew in his oars and sat down beside her in the stern.
Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves, the flies came out and made a cheerful droning sound as though summer had already come, a lark was singing far up in the blue vault above, and everywhere the quiet of perfect peace seemed to brood.
Macneillie felt that longer silence was perilous, he had learned to allow himself scant leisure when temptation was rife.
“Tell me now what your trouble is,” he said quietly.
“Oh!” she cried vehemently, “it seems like sacrilege even to speak of it in such a place as this where all is so peaceful.”
Macneillie, who was very far from being at peace, smiled a little involuntarily.
“The place is well enough,” he said glancing round. “But now that we are actually among the ‘pendent boughs’ it reminds me rather too much of
‘There is a willow grows aslant a brook.’