“Not quite so hard as that thousands, every day, who would enjoy a meat dinner, should have nothing but dry bread, and not enough of that.  I fancy sometimes, that, in some mysterious way, that want will be made up to them in the next life; and so with all the beautiful things which travelled people talk of—­I comfort myself with the fancy, that I see as much as is good for me here, and that if I make good use of that, I shall see the Alps and the Andes in the world to come, or something much more worth seeing.  Tell me now, how far may that range of crags be from us?  I am sure that I could walk there after luncheon, this mountain air is strengthening me so.”

“Walk thither?  I assure you they are at least four miles off.”

“Four?  And I thought them one!  So clear and sharp as they stand out against the sky, one fancies that one could almost stretch out a hand and touch those knolls and slabs of rock, as distinct as in a photograph; and yet so soft and rich withal, dappled with pearly-grey stone and purple heath.  Ah!—­So it must be, I suppose.  The first time that one sees a glorious thing, one’s heart is lifted up towards it in love and awe, till it seems near to one—­ground on which one may freely tread, because one appreciates and admires; and so one forgets the distance between its grandeur and one’s own littleness.”

The allusion was palpable:  but did he intend it?  Surely not, after what he had just said.  And yet there was a sadness in the tone which made Valencia fancy that some feeling for her might still linger:  but he evidently had been speaking to himself, forgetful, for the moment, of her presence; for he turned to her with a start and a blush—­“But now—­I have been troubling you too long with this stupid tete-a-tete sentimentality of mine.  I will make my bow, and find the Major.  I am afraid, if it be possible for him to forget any one, he has forgotten me in some new moss or other.”

He went out, and to Valencia’s chagrin she saw him no more that day.  He spent the forenoon in the garden, and the afternoon in lying down, and at night complained of fatigue, and stayed in his own room the whole evening, while Campbell read him to sleep.  Next morning, however, he made his appearance at breakfast, well and cheerful.

“I must play at sick man no more, or I shall rob you, I see, of Major Campbell’s company; and I owe you all for too much already.”

“Unless you are better than you were last night, you must play at sick man,” said the Major.  “I cannot conceive what exhausted you so; unless you ladies are better nurses, I must let no one come near him but myself.  If you had been scolding him the whole morning, instead of praising him as he deserves, he could not have been more tired last night.”

“Pray do not!” cried Frank, evidently much pained; “I had such a delightful morning, and every one is so kind—­you only make me wretched, when I feel all the trouble I am giving.”