“Why don’t you do as I do?” he asked, passing his fingers through his hair.  “It’s a great mistake to wear a hat, especially if one has a turn for trespassing.”

“Who tells you,” laughed I then, “that I am trespassing?  For aught you know, this may be my own ground.”

The young man looked at me curiously.

“Are you, then, Emilia Fletcher?” he cried.

I nodded assent; whereupon he held out his hand and jerked his head forward; it was evidently an attempt at courtesy.  I took the hand and laughed outright:  he looked so funny with his bright eyes twinkling beneath the tangled forelock.

“I have heard of you,” he said, “and I am glad to meet you.  The other day I asked to whom the land belonged, and was told that you were half Italian and rather eccentric.  You seem to be a human being.  I am glad to have met you.  My name is Gabriel Norton.”

Here the big bell rang out from the house, summoning me to tea,—­it had rung once already.  So the apparition and I parted company.

I wonder if he has caught cold; I am sure that I have; I have been sneezing all the evening.

It may be very pleasant and romantic to sit on the moss with a wood-sprite after a shower, but perhaps it is not very wise.

I must go and say good night downstairs.  I left Miss Seymour reading sentimental ballads on pauper childhood to the old ladies; it must now be close upon their bed-time.

Good night, beloved. 
Your Emilia.

P.S.  I forgot to say that he has one really fine point:  his hands are quite beautiful.  I keep on wondering what you would think of him.  O dio! how good it was to laugh again.

LETTER XIII.

Graysmill, October 18th.

Very dear, I hope this letter will reach Vienna before you do, and welcome you there.  The words we write in one mood are read when another has taken its place; perhaps you are as merry as a bird in spring by this time,—­perhaps not.  My poor little dear.  I know myself what it is to sink into a bottomless pit of senseless misery, but I must tell you that it nearly always happens when I am idle.

A woman that is debarred from woman’s best profession—­wifehood and motherhood—­must find some other work to do; idleness, uselessness—­above all, idleness—­are the hotbed of all manner of follies.  The stupidest man in existence, working day by day at the worldliest work, has the better of us in this, that he is weighted, so to speak, and cannot flutter to and fro with every breeze that blows.  You say that you cannot work, that you have heard all this at least a thousand times; well, never mind, hear it once more!

Take German lessons, your German is very bad; go on with your singing, your sweet voice is very ignorant; read, make some study, however unprofitable, of the French Revolution, the Renaissance, the Conquest of Peru, anything, anything you like; or buy a sewing-machine at least, and make flannel petticoats for the poor; anything, Constantia, only don’t for Heaven’s sake sit there with your hands in your lap, listening to the gabble of fools, while Mrs. Rayner touches up a curl here and a frill there, from morning till night, for ever and ever.