"Did I ever tell you the story of my great-grandfather drowning in that pool?"
"What, the drinking and gambling gentleman?"
"Yes, poor wretch! He had half killed his wife, and ruined the property—so it was time. He was otter hunting—there is an otter hole still, half-way down that bank. Somehow or other he came to the top of the crag alone, probably not sober. The river was in flood; and his poor wife, sitting on one of those rock seats with her needlework and her books, heard the shouts of the huntsmen—helped to draw him out and to carry him home. Do you see that little beach?"—he pointed to a break in the rocky bank. "It was there—so tradition says—that he lay upon her knee, she wailing over him. And in three months she too was gone."
Laura turned away.
"I won't think of it," she said obstinately. "I will only think of her as she is in the picture."
On the little platform she paused, with her hand on the railing, the dark water eddying below her, the crag above her.
"I could—tell you something about this place," she said slowly. "Do you want to hear?"
She bent over the water. He stood beside her. The solitude of the spot, the deep shadow of the crag, gave love freedom.
He drew her to him.
"Dear!—confess!"