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She withdrew entirely now, all but her hand, and her eyes sought the ground.

“I suppose I shall have to now,–that is, if you think–at least, I suppose you do think–at any rate, you look as if you were thinking–that this has been giving you encouragement.”

“I do indeed,–decisive, undoubted, barefaced encouragement.”

“I don’t think I ought to be judged as if I were in my sober senses,” she replied. “I was frightened within an inch of my life. I told you this morning that I was dreadfully afraid of bulls, especially mad ones, and I told you that my nurse frightened me, when I was a child, with awful stories about them, and that I never outgrew my childish terror. I looked everywhere about: the barn was too far, the fence too high, I saw him coming, and there was nothing but you and the open country; of course I took you. It was very natural, I’m sure,–any girl would have done it.”

“To be sure,” I replied soothingly, “any girl would have run after me, as you say.”

“I didn’t say any girl would have run after you,–you needn’t flatter yourself; and besides, I think I was really trying to protect you as well as to gain protection; else why should I have cast myself on you like a catamount, or a catacomb, or whatever the thing is?”

“Yes, darling, I thank you for saving my life, and I am willing to devote the remainder of it to your service as a pledge of my gratitude; but if you should take up life-saving as a profession, dear, don’t throw yourself on a fellow with”–

“Jack! Jack!” she cried, putting her hand over my lips, and getting it well kissed in consequence. “If you will only forget that, and never, never taunt me with it afterwards, I’ll–I’ll–well, I’ll do anything in reason; yes, even marry you!”

CANTERBURY, July 31
The Royal Fountain.

I was never sure enough of Kitty, at first, to dare risk telling her about that little mistake of hers. She is such an elusive person that I spend all my time in wooing her, and can never lay flattering unction to my soul that she is really won.

But after aunt Celia had looked up my family record and given a provisional consent, and papa Schuyler had cabled a reluctant blessing, I did not feel capable of any further self-restraint.

It was twilight here in Canterbury, and we were sitting on the vine-shaded veranda of aunt Celia’s lodging. Kitty’s head was on my shoulder. There is something very queer about that; when Kitty’s head is on my shoulder, I am not capable of any consecutive train of thought. When she puts it there I see stars, then myriads of stars, then, oh! I can’t begin to enumerate the steps by which ecstasy mounts to delirium; but at all events, any operation which demands exclusive use of the intellect is beyond me at these times. Still I gathered my stray wits together and said, “Kitty!”

“Yes, Jack?”

“Now that nothing but death or marriage can separate us, I have something to confess to you.”

“Yes,” she said serenely, “I know what you are going to say. He was a cow.”

I lifted her head from my shoulder sternly, and gazed into her childlike, candid eyes.

“You mountain of deceit! How long have you known about it?”

“Ever since the first. Oh, Jack, stop looking at me in that way! Not the very first, not when I–not when you–not when we–no, not then, but the next morning I said to Farmer Hendry, ‘I wish you would keep your savage bull chained up while we are here; aunt Celia is awfully afraid of them, especially those that go mad, like yours!’ ‘Lor’, miss,’ said Farmer Hendry, ‘he haven’t been pastured here for three weeks. I keep him six mile away. There ben’t nothing but gentle cows in the home medder.’ But I didn’t think that you knew, you secretive person! I dare say you planned the whole thing in advance, in order to take advantage of my fright!”

“Never! I am incapable of such an unnecessary subterfuge! Besides, Kitty, I could not have made an accomplice of a cow, you know.”

“Then,” she said, with great dignity, “if you had been a gentleman and a man of honor, you would have cried, ‘Unhand me, girl! You are clinging to me under a misunderstanding!'”

SHE

CHESTER, August 8
The Grosvenor.

Jack and I are going over this same ground next summer, on our wedding trip. We shall sail for home next week, and we haven’t half done justice to the cathedrals. After the first two, we saw nothing but each other on a general background of architecture. I hope my mind is improved, but oh, I am so hazy about all the facts I have read since I knew Jack! Winchester and Salisbury stand out superbly in my memory. They acquired their ground before it was occupied with other matters. I shall never forget, for instance, that Winchester has the longest spire and Salisbury the highest nave of all the English cathedrals. And I shall never forget so long as I live that Jane Austen and Isaac Newt–Oh dear! was it Isaac Newton or Izaak Walton that was buried in Winchester and Salisbury? To think that that interesting fact should have slipped from my mind, after all the trouble I took with it! But I know that it was Isaac somebody, and that he was buried in–well, he was buried in one of those two places. I am not certain which, but I can ask Jack; he is sure to know.