The thoughts, the hopes, the joys of her childhood flashed with sudden power through the heart of Mary as he spoke, and she resisted them not.

“Forgive me, Herbert,” she said, hastily rising to prepare; “I have become a strange and wayward being the last few months; you must bear with me, for the sake of former days.”

Playfully he granted the desired forgiveness, and they departed on their walk.  For some little time they walked in silence.  Before they were aware of it, a gentle ascent conducted them to a spot, not only lovely in its own richness, but in the extensive view that stretched beneath them.  The wide ocean lay slumbering at their feet; the brilliant rays of the sun, which it reflected as a mirror, appeared to lull it to rest, the very waves broke softly on the shore.  To the left extended the snow-white cliffs, throwing in shadow part of the ocean, and bringing forward their own illumined walls in bold relief against the dark blue sea.  Ships of every size, from the floating castle in the offing to the tiny pleasure boat, whose white sails shining in the sun caused her to be distinguished at some distance, skimming along the ocean as a bird of snowy plumage across the heavens, the merchant vessels, the packets entering and departing, even the blackened colliers, added interest to the scene; for at the distance Herbert and Mary stood, no confusion was heard to disturb the moving picture.  On their right the beautiful country peculiar to Kent spread out before them in graceful undulations of hill and valley, hop-ground and meadow, wherein the sweet fragrance of the newly-mown grass was wafted at intervals to the spot where they stood.  Wild flowers of various kinds were around them; the hawthorn appearing like a tree of snow in the centre of a dark green hedge; the modest primrose and the hidden violet yet lingered, as if loth to depart, though their brethren of the summer had already put forth their budding blossoms.  A newly-severed trunk of an aged tree invited them to sit and rest, and the most tasteful art could not have placed a rustic seat in a more lovely scene.

Long and painfully did Mary gaze around her, as if she would engrave within her heart every scene of the land she was so soon to leave.

“Herbert,” she said, at length, “I never wished to gaze on futurity before, but now, oh, I would give much to know if indeed I shall ever gaze on these scenes again.  Could I but think I might return to them, the pang of leaving would lose one half its bitterness.  I know this is a weak and perhaps sinful feeling; but in vain I have lately striven to bow resignedly to my Maker’s will, even should His call meet me, as I sometimes fear it will, in a foreign land, apart from all, save one, whom I love on earth.”

“Do not, do not think so, dearest Mary.  True, indeed, there is no parting without its fears, even for a week, a day, an hour.  Death ever hovers near us, to descend when least expected.  But oh, for my sake, Mary, dear Mary, talk not of dying in a foreign land.  God’s will is best, His decree is love; I know, I feel it, and on this subject from our infancy we have felt alike; to you alone have I felt that I dared breathe the holy aspirations sometimes my own.  I am not wont to be sanguine, but somewhat whispers within me you will return—­these scenes behold again.”