ed. Then my heart rose, and I gave way. 'If ever you are poor,'
I faltered,--'penniless, hunted, friendless--come to me, Harold, and I
will help and comfort you. But not till then. Not till then, I implore
you.'

He leant back and clasped his hands. 'You have given me something to
live for, dear Lois,' he murmured. 'I will try to be poor--penniless,
hunted, friendless. To win you I will try. And when that day arrives, I
shall come to claim you.'

We sat for an hour and had a delicious talk--about nothing. But we
understood each other. Only that artificial barrier divided us. At the
end of the hour, I heard Elsie coming back by judiciously slow stages
from the kitchen to the living-room, through six feet of passage,
discoursing audibly to Ursula all the way, with a tardiness that did
honour to her heart and her understanding. Dear, kind little Elsie! I
believe she had never a tiny romance of her own; yet her sympathy for
others was sweet to look upon.

We lunched at a small deal table in the veranda. Around us rose the
pinnacles. The scent of pines and moist moss was in the air. Elsie had
arranged the flowers, and got ready the omelette, and cooked the chicken
cutlets, and prepared the junket. 'I never thought I could do it alone
without you, Brownie; but I tried, and it all came right by magic,
somehow.' We laughed and talked incessantly. Harold was in excellent
cue; and Elsie took to him. A livelier or merrier table there wasn't in
the twenty-two Cantons that day than ours, under the sapphire sky,
looking out on the sun-smitten snows of the Jungfrau.

After lunch, Harold begged hard to be allowed to stop for tea. I had
misgivings, but I gave way--he _was_ such good company. One may as well
be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, says the wisdom of our ancestors: and,
after all, Mrs. Grundy was only represented here by Elsie, the gentlest
and least censorious of her daughters. So he stopped and chatted till
four; when I made tea and insisted on dismissing him. He meant to take
the rough mountain path over the screes from Lungern to Meiringen, which
ran right behind the _chalet_. I feared lest he might be belated, and
urged him to hurry.

'Thanks, I'm happier here,' he answered.

I was sternness itself. 'You _promised_ me!' I said, in a reproachful
voice.

He rose instantly, and bowed. 'Your will is law--even when it pronounces
sentence of exile.'

Would we walk a little way with him? No, I faltered; we would not. We