“Neebin,” said the lady, addressing the child, “may run about in the woods a little while.”

When the girl had departed, the Knight, seating himself at some distance from the lady, opened the conversation.

“Celestina,” he said, “there has been of late a want of that frankness which characterized our intercourse at our arrival in this country, and for some time thereafter.  Will you not tell me the cause?”

“Sir Christopher,” replied the lady, “a suspicious mind is ofttimes deceived by its imaginations.  Wherein, pray, has been a change in my conduct?”

“Nay.  I know not that I can say, in this and in that thou hast not trusted me, but I feel that it is so.”

“Look into thyself, Sir Christopher, and there wilt thou find the cause.  The outer world is but a reflection of the inner.”

“I protest, Celestina, I am not altered.  Thou art to me as ever, my trusty and valued associate, bound to me by ties of peculiar significancy, and as sacred as those which commonly unite man and woman.

“It is my dearest wish that thou shouldst feel the full force of the obligation they impose on thee.”

“Do I not?” Have I not labored with untiring diligence to promote the end we both have in view?  Wherein have I failed?  Point out the error, and I will correct it.”

“I do not presume to be so bold.  The masculine energy of Sir Christopher Gardiner is not to be guided by a woman.”

“Alas!  Celestina,” said the Knight, with some feeling, “were we not joined in this holy enterprise because it was supposed the fulness of the one might supply the deficiency of the other?  O, turn not away so coldly.”

“My warm devotion, my active zeal, shall never be wanting to the work whereunto we are pledged; and if any feeling hath arisen inconsistent with the harmony that should unite us, I am not sensible that it springs from any fault of mine.  But you exaggerate,” she added, smiling, “my momentary sadness into unnecessary importance—­a sadness wherewith thou mayst have no connection.”

“Thou canst not deceive me, Celestina.  I have profited little by the lessons of this world, and feeling was given me in vain, were I incapable of noticing the change in thee.  There was a time when thy spirit, like a musical string in accord with another, vibrated in harmony with mine—­but it is no longer so.”

“Thou art importunate, Sir Christopher.  Wilt thou not believe what I say?”

“Pardon me if I am over urgent, and ascribe it to the value I attach to my lost treasure.  It sweetened the solitude of exile, and made me almost forget the attractions of stirring Europe.  But thou dost not, and canst not deny my complaint.”

“Is there not enough in the circumstances wherein I am placed, to agitate the timid heart of a woman, and account for her unreasonable caprices?  Why persist in connecting them with thyself as the cause?”