hundred
yards away.

"You have no note?"

Tatham tapped his breast pocket.

"Rather!"

"All right--go along!" Lady Tatham came to a halt. "And Harry--don't call
too often! Is this the third visit this week?"

"Oh, but the others were such little ones!" he said eagerly.

"Don't try to go too quick." The tone was serious.

"Too quick! I make no way at all," he protested, his look clouding.

Tatham rode slowly along the Darra, the little river which skirted his
own land and made its way at last into that which flowed beneath the
Tower. He was going to Threlfall, but on his way he was to call at Green
Cottage and deliver a note from his mother.

He had seen a good deal of Lydia Penfold during the weeks since her first
appearance at Duddon. The two sisters had been induced to lunch there
once or twice; there had been a picnic in the Glendarra woods; and for
himself, in spite of his mother's attack, he thought he had been fairly
clever in contriving excuses for calls. On one occasion he had carried
with him--by his mother's suggestion--a portfolio containing a dozen
early proofs of the "Liber Studiorium," things about which he knew little
or nothing; but Lydia's eyes had sparkled when he produced them, which
was all he cared for. On the second, he had called to offer them a key
which would admit their pony-carriage to some of the private drives of
the park, wild enchanted ways which led up to the very eastern heart of
Blencathra. That was not quite so successful, because both Lydia and her
mother were out, and his call had been made chiefly on Susan, who had
been even queerer than usual. After taking the key, she had let it fall
absently into a waste-paper basket, while she talked to him about Ibsen;
and he had been forced to rescue it himself, lest Lydia should never know
of his visit. On all other occasions he had found Lydia, and she had been
charming--always charming--but as light and inaccessible as mountain
birds. He had been allowed to see the drawing she was now busy on--the
ravines of Blencathra, caught sideways through a haze of light, edge
beyond edge, distance behind distance; a brave attempt on the artist's
part at poetic breadth and selection. She had been much worried about the
"values," whatever they might be. "They're quite vilely wrong!" she had
said, impatiently. "And I don't know how to get them right." And all he
could do was to stand like an oaf and ask her to explain. Nor could he
ignore the