“But the mermaid was very foolish to believe him,” added Harry—­“very.”

They visited the Fairy Bower, did these young people—­the only spot about Gethin where trees grew; a beautiful ravine, with a fall of water, and a caverned cell beside it, where a solitary hermit was said to have dwelt.  Notwithstanding which celibate association, it had a wishing-well besides, into which a maiden had but to drop a pin, and wish her wish, and straightway the face of her future husband was mirrored in the water.  Through its clear depths you might see the bottom of the pool quite paved with pins.

“And does the charm always work?” asked Richard, laughing.  “Try it to-day.”

“No, no,” answered Harry, gravely; “one must be quite alone for that, and beneath the moonlight.”

On Morven Point, a grand old promontory, which pushed out many a yard to meet the encroaching waves, and battled with long before they reached the main land, they sat and watched the sunsets; looked down upon the busy hive of men that worked upon the slate quarry beneath, or gazed upon the ships that tacked and wore to make Turlock Haven.  There was a tower on this place, half ruined and with broken steps, up which they climbed together on one occasion, and stood supporting one another upon its dizzy top.  There lay around them a splendid prospect of sea and land, but they were looking into one another’s eyes, and yet they did not speak of that which was nearest to their hearts.  It was a topic to be avoided as long as possible.  They only enjoyed these blissful opportunities—­they had only been permitted to thus stroll out together alone and unsuspected—­upon the tacit understanding that no such thing as love could exist between them.  If Harry had not plighted faith to Solomon, her engagement to him tacitly existed nevertheless, and it was under its aegis alone that they had been protected and indulged.  It was a part of the character of the young girl to persuade herself that she was doing no harm so long as it was possible to entertain that delusion; and it was all one to Richard what their love was called so long as it was love.  Else, as they stood alone together in the noonday stillness, his arm around her waist, as it had not been since that first afternoon upon the castled rock, he must needs have told her why the heart that pressed so close against her side was beating high.  Just then, however, he dared not.  Suppose that, by any possibility, he had mistaken her sentiments; suppose, that is, an extorted promise, or fear of her father’s anger, or what not, should compel her to deny his suit, and cleave to Solomon; suppose even that her simplicity was such—­and it was in some things marvelously great—­that she had accepted his affection as that of a brother—­a friend of her father’s and of “Sol’s”—­but no; he felt certain that she loved him; suppose, at all events, for whatever reason, she was once again to reprove him for yielding to the temptation of her lips, he felt that such a rebuke must of necessity finish all.  She could not forgive him twice, unless she gave him license to offend forever.  He dared not, therefore, speak directly of that which both were thinking of; and yet he could not altogether ignore so sweet a subject.