Spinrobin, however, understood perfectly.  His own heart made him intuitive enough for that.  And the first signs thrilled and moved him prodigiously.  His account of it all is like no love story that has ever been heard, for in the first place this singular girl hardly breathed about her the reality of an actual world.  She had known nothing beyond the simple life in this hollow of the hills on the one hand, and on the other the portentous conceptions that peopled the region of dream revealed by the clergyman.  And in the second place she had no standards but her own instincts to judge by, for Mrs. Mawle, in spite of her devotion to the girl, suffered under too great disabilities to fill the place of a mother, while Mr. Skale was too lost in his vast speculations to guide her except in a few general matters, and too sure of her at the same time to reflect that she might ever need detailed guidance.  Her exceedingly natural and wholesome bringing-up on the one hand, and her own native purity and good sense on the other, however, led her fairly straight; while the fact that Spinrobin, with his modesty and his fine aspirations, was a “little gentleman” into the bargain, ensured that no unlawful temptation should be placed in her way, or undue pressure, based upon her ignorance, employed.

II

They were coming down one afternoon from the mountains soon after the test of calling his name, and they were alone, the clergyman being engaged upon some mysterious business that had kept him out of sight all day.  They did not talk much, but they were happy in each other’s company, Spinrobin more than happy.  Much of the time, when the ground allowed, they went along hand in hand like children.

“Miriam,” he had asked on the top of the moors, “did I ever tell you about Winky—­my little friend Winky?” And she had looked up with a smile and shaken her head.  “But I like the name,” she added; “I should like to hear, please.”  And he told her how as a boy he had invoked various folk to tease his sister, of whom Winky was chief, but in telling the story he somehow or other always referred to the little person by name, and never once revealed his sex.  He told, too, how he sat all night on the lawn outside his sister’s window to intercept the expected visit.

“Winky,” she said, speaking rather low, “is a true name, of course.  You really created Winky—­called Winky into being.”  For to her now this seemed as true and possible as it had seemed to himself at the age of ten.

“Oh, I really loved Winky,” he replied enthusiastically, and was at the same moment surprised to feel her draw away her hand.  “Winky lived for years in my very heart.”

And the next thing he knew, after a brief silence between them, was that he heard a sob, and no attempt to smother it either.  In less than a second he was beside her and had both her hands in his.  He understood in a flash.