"You are happy"—said Eleanor.
"Why are not you?"
"I can't help it," said the girl, lifting up her head, though she did not let her eyes go out of the window. "I cannot bear to see the lightning. It is foolish, but I cannot help it."
"Are you sure it is foolish? Is there not some reason at the bottom of it?"
"I think there is a reason, though still it is foolish. There was a man killed by lightning just by our door, once—when I was a child. I saw him—I never can forget it, never!"
And a sort of shudder ran over Eleanor's shoulders as she spoke.
"You want my armour," said her companion. The tone of voice was not only grave but sympathising. Eleanor looked up at him.
"Your armour?"
"You charged me with wearing armour—and I confessed it," he said with something of a smile. "It is a sort of armour that makes people safe in all circumstances."
He looked so quiet, so grave, so cool, and his eye had such a light in it, that Eleanor could not throw off his words. He looked like a man in armour. But no mail of brass was to be seen.