em perceived; neither
he, who simply thought it gracious and charming as herself; nor yet she,
who did not observe (quick as she was) the difference between rising to
meet the laird, and remaining seated to receive the expected admirer.

"Are ye stepping west, Hermiston?" said she, giving him his territorial
name after the fashion of the countryside.

"I was," said he, a little hoarsely, "but I think I will be about the
end of my stroll now. Are you like me, Miss Christina? The house would
not hold me. I came here seeking air."

He took his seat at the other end of the tombstone and studied her,
wondering what was she. There was infinite import in the question alike
for her and him.

"Ay," said she. "I couldna bear the roof either. It's a habit of mine to
come up here about the gloaming when it's quaiet and caller."

"It was a habit of my mother's also," he said gravely. The recollection
half startled him as he expressed it. He looked around. "I have scarce
been here since. It's peaceful," he said, with a long breath.

"It's no like Glasgow," she replied. "A weary place, yon Glasgow! But
what a day have I had for my hame-coming, and what a bonny evening!"

"Indeed, it was a wonderful day," said Archie. "I think I will remember
it years and years until I come to die. On days like this--I do not know
if you feel as I do--but everything appears so brief, and fragile, and
exquisite, that I am afraid to touch life. We are here for so short a
time; and all the old people before us--Rutherfords of Hermiston,
Elliotts of the Cauldstaneslap--that were here but a while since riding
about and keeping up a great noise in this quiet corner--making love
too, and marrying--why, where are they now? It's deadly commonplace,
but, after all, the commonplaces are the great poetic truths."

He was sounding her, semi-consciously, to see if she could understand
him; to learn if she were only an animal the colour of flowers, or had a
soul in her to keep her sweet. She, on her part, her means well in hand,
watched, woman-like, for any opportunity to shine, to abound in his
humour, whatever that might be. The dramatic artist, that lies dormant
or only half awake in most human beings, had in her sprung to his feet
in a divine fury, and chance had served her well. She looked upon him
with a subdued twilight look that became the hour of the day and the
train of thought; earnestness shone through her like stars in the purple
west; and from t