But she had not positively declined to undertake Clifford’s higher education, and Felix, who had not thought of the matter again, being haunted with visions of more personal profit, now reflected that the work of redemption had fairly begun.  The idea in prospect had seemed of the happiest, but in operation it made him a trifle uneasy.  “What if Eugenia—­what if Eugenia”—­he asked himself softly; the question dying away in his sense of Eugenia’s undetermined capacity.  But before Felix had time either to accept or to reject its admonition, even in this vague form, he saw Robert Acton turn out of Mr. Wentworth’s inclosure, by a distant gate, and come toward the cottage in the orchard.  Acton had evidently walked from his own house along a shady by-way and was intending to pay a visit to Madame Munster.  Felix watched him a moment; then he turned away.  Acton could be left to play the part of Providence and interrupt—­if interruption were needed—­Clifford’s entanglement with Eugenia.

Felix passed through the garden toward the house and toward a postern gate which opened upon a path leading across the fields, beside a little wood, to the lake.  He stopped and looked up at the house; his eyes rested more particularly upon a certain open window, on the shady side.  Presently Gertrude appeared there, looking out into the summer light.  He took off his hat to her and bade her good-day; he remarked that he was going to row across the pond, and begged that she would do him the honor to accompany him.  She looked at him a moment; then, without saying anything, she turned away.  But she soon reappeared below in one of those quaint and charming Leghorn hats, tied with white satin bows, that were worn at that period; she also carried a green parasol.  She went with him to the edge of the lake, where a couple of boats were always moored; they got into one of them, and Felix, with gentle strokes, propelled it to the opposite shore.  The day was the perfection of summer weather; the little lake was the color of sunshine; the plash of the oars was the only sound, and they found themselves listening to it.  They disembarked, and, by a winding path, ascended the pine-crested mound which overlooked the water, whose white expanse glittered between the trees.  The place was delightfully cool, and had the added charm that—­in the softly sounding pine boughs—­you seemed to hear the coolness as well as feel it.  Felix and Gertrude sat down on the rust-colored carpet of pine-needles and talked of many things.  Felix spoke at last, in the course of talk, of his going away; it was the first time he had alluded to it.

“You are going away?” said Gertrude, looking at him.

“Some day—­when the leaves begin to fall.  You know I can’t stay forever.”

Gertrude transferred her eyes to the outer prospect, and then, after a pause, she said, “I shall never see you again.”

“Why not?” asked Felix.  “We shall probably both survive my departure.”