“And Miss Denham?” said Lynde, drawing a scarcely repressed breath of relief.

“Oh, Ruth can go if she likes,” replied Mrs. Denham, “provided it is not too far.”

“It is hardly an eighth of a mile across,” said Lynde.  “You will find us waiting for you at the opposite end of the cut, unless you drive rapidly.  It is more than a mile by the road.”

“Do you wish to go, Ruth?”

Miss Denham hesitated an instant, and then answered by rising impulsively and giving her hand to Lynde.  Evidently, her first intention had been to refuse.  In a moment more she was standing beside him, and the carriage was lazily crawling up the hill with Mrs. Denham looking back through her glass at the cascade.

A dozen rude steps, partly artificial and partly formed by the strata of the limestone bank, led from the roadside up to the opening of the foot-way.  For thirty or forty yards the fern-fringed path was too narrow to admit of two persons walking abreast.  Miss Denham, with her skirts gathered in one hand, went first, picking her way over the small loose stones rendered slippery by the moss, and Lynde followed on in silence, hardly able to realize the success of the ruse which had come so near being a failure.  His companion was equally preoccupied.  Once she stopped for Lynde to detach her dress from a grasping twig, and once to pluck one of those pallid waxen flowers which sometimes dauntlessly find a footing even among the snowdrifts of the higher Alps.  The air was full of the resinous breath of the pines, whose boughs, meeting and interlacing overhead, formed an arabesqued roof, through the openings of which the afternoon sunshine sifted, as if through stained glass.  With the slender stems of the trees rising on each side in the semi-twilight, the grove was like the transept of a cathedral.  It seemed a profanation to speak in such a place.  Lynde could have wandered on forever in contented silence, with that tall, pliant figure in its severely cut drapery moving before him.  As he watched the pure outline defining itself against the subdued light, he was reminded of a colored bas-relief he had seen on a certain Egyptian vase in the Museum at Naples.  Presently the path widened, a brook babbled somewhere ahead among the rocks, and the grove abruptly ended.  As Lynde stepped to Miss Denham’s side he heaved a deep, involuntary sigh.

“What a sigh, Mr. Lynde!” she cried, swiftly turning upon him with a surprised smile.  “It was scarcely complimentary.”

“It was not exactly a compliment; it was an unpremeditated monody on the death of this day, which has flown too soon.”

“You are very ready with your monody; it yet lacks three or four hours of sunset, when one might probably begin to lament.  I am enjoying it all too much to have a regret.”

“Do you know, I thought you were not enjoying it—­the journey, I mean?  You have not spoken a hundred words since we left Geneva.”