‘Do you walk out this morning, my dear?’

‘Yes, I shall go to the Rectory, and seek and find Caroline Helstone, and make her take some exercise: she shall have a breezy walk over Nunnely Common.’

‘If you go in that direction, my dear, have the goodness to remind Miss Helstone to wrap up well, as there is a fresh wind, and she appears to me to require care.’

‘You shall be minutely obeyed, Mrs. Pryor; meantime, will you not accompany us yourself?’

‘No, my love; I should be a restraint upon you. I am stout, and cannot walk so quickly as you would wish to do.’

Shirley easily persuaded Caroline to go with her, and when they were fairly out on the quiet road, traversing the extensive and solitary sweep of Nunnely Common, she as easily drew her into conversation. The first feelings of diffidence overcome, Caroline soon felt glad to talk with Miss Keeldar. The very first interchange of slight observations sufficed to give each an idea of what the other was. Shirley said she liked the green sweep of the common turf, and, better still, the heath on its ridges, for the heath reminded her of moors; she had seen moors when she was travelling on the borders near Scotland. She remembered particularly a district traversed one long afternoon, on a sultry but sunless day in summer; they journeyed from noon till sunset over what seemed a boundless waste of deep heath, and nothing had they seen but wild sheep, nothing heard but the cries of wild birds.

‘I know how the heath would look on such a day,’ said Caroline; ‘purple-black, a deeper shade of the sky- tint, and that would be livid.’

‘Yes, quite livid, with brassy edges to the clouds, and here and there a white gleam, more ghastly than the lurid tinge, which, as you looked at it, you momentarily expected would kindle into blinding lightning.’

‘Did it thunder?’

‘It muttered distant peals, but the storm did not break till evening, after we had reached our inn—that inn being an isolated house at the foot of a range of mountains.’

‘Did you watch the clouds come down over the mountains?’

‘I did; I stood at the window an hour watching them. The hills seemed rolled in a sullen mist, and when the rain fell in whitening sheets, suddenly they were blotted from the prospect: they were washed from the world.’

‘I have seen such storms in hilly districts in Yorkshire, and, at their riotous climax, while the sky was all cataract, the earth all flood, I have remembered the Deluge.’

‘It is singularly reviving after such hurricanes to feel calm return, and from the opening clouds to receive a consolatory gleam, softly testifying that the sun is not quenched.’

‘Miss Keeldar, just stand still now, and look down at Nunnely dale and wood.’

They both halted on the green brow of the Common; they looked down on the deep valley robed in May raiment—on varied meads, some pearled with daisies, and some golden with king-cups; to-day all this young verdure smiled clear in sunlight, transparent emerald and amber gleams played over it. On Nunnwood—the sole remnant of antique British forest in a region whose lowlands were once all sylvan chase, as its highlands were breast-deep heather—slept the shadow of a cloud; the distant hills were dappled, the horizon was shaded and tinted like mother-of-pearl; silvery blues, soft purples, evanescent greens and rose-shades, all melting into fleeces of white cloud, pure as azury snow, allured the eye as with a remote glimpse of heaven’s foundations. The air blowing on the brow was fresh, and sweet, and bracing.