not do so at first.  The question was how to find her; the great crags lay between me and the land of delight; and when I hurried out of the college, the thought of the descent and its dangers fairly unmanned me.  I knew, however, of no other way.  But what was my surprise when, on arriving at the top, not far from the point where Amroth had greeted me after the ascent, I saw a little steep path, which wound itself down into the gulleys and chimneys of the black rocks.  I took it without hesitation, and though again and again it seemed to come to an end in front of me, I found that it could be traced and followed without serious difficulty.  The descent was accomplished with a singular rapidity, and I marvelled to find myself at the crag-base in so brief a time, considering the intolerable tedium of the ascent.  I rapidly crossed the intervening valley, and was very soon at the gate of the careless land.  To my intense joy, and not at all to my surprise, I found Cynthia at the gate itself, waiting for me with a look of expectancy.  She came forwards, and threw herself passionately into my arms, murmuring words of delight and welcome, like a child.

“I knew you would come,” she said.  “I am frightened—­all sorts of dreadful things have happened.  I have found out where I am—­and I seem to have lost all my friends.  Charmides is gone, and Lucius is cruel to me—­he tells me that I have lost my spirits and my good looks, and am tiresome company.”

I looked at her—­she was paler and frailer-looking than when I left her; and she was habited very differently, in simpler and graver dress.  But she was to my eyes infinitely more beautiful and dearer, and I told her so.  She smiled at that, but half tearfully; and we seated ourselves on a bench hard by, looking over the garden, which was strangely and luxuriantly beautiful.

“You must take me away with you at once,” she said.  “I cannot live here without you.  I thought at first, when you went, that it was rather a relief not to have your grave face at my shoulder,”—­here she took my face in her hands—­“always reminding me of something I did not want, and ought to have wanted—­but oh, how I began to miss you! and then I got so tired of this silly, lazy place, and all the music and jokes and compliments.  But I am a worthless creature, and not good for anything.  I cannot work, and I hate being idle.  Take me anywhere, make me do something, beat me if you like, only force me to be different from what I am.”

“Very well,” I said.  “I will give you a good beating presently, of course, but just let me consider what will hurt you most, silly child!”

“That is it,” she said.  “I want to be hurt and bruised, and shaken as my nurse used to shake me, when I was a naughty child.  Oh dear, oh dear, how wretched I am!” and poor Cynthia laid her head on my shoulder and burst into tears.

“Come, come,” I said, “you must not do that—­I want my wits about me; but if you cry, you will simply make a fool of me—­and this is no time for love-making.”