ny hint of such a thing has ever made me think
of Joan in such a connection. I should have been less surprised if the
ceiling had fallen in upon us."

She looked at him and nodded gravely.

"Well," she said, "our oracle has spoken. What are you going to do?"

"I am going to ask for your advice first," he said.

"Then you must tell me just how you feel," she said.

He drew a long breath.

"There are so many things," he said, speaking softly and half to
himself. "Last week, Cicely, I took a compass and a stick and I walked
across the hills to Rydal Mount, where Wordsworth lived. When I came
back I think that I was quite content to spend all my days here. It is
such a beautiful world. Some day when you have lived here longer, you
will know what I mean--the bondage will fall upon you, too. The
mountains with their tops hidden in soft blue mist, the winds blowing
across the waste places, the wild flowers springing up in unexpected
corners, the little streams tearing down the hillside to flow smoothly
like a belt of beautiful ribbon through the pasture land below. The
love which comes for these things, Cicely, is a strange, haunting thing.
You cannot escape from it. It is a sort of bondage. The winds seem to
tune themselves to your thoughts, the sunlight laughs away your
depression. Listen! Do you hear the sheep-bells from behind the hill
there? Isn't that music? Then the twilight and the darkness! If you
are on the hilltop they seem to steal down like a world of soothing
shadows. Everything that is dreary and sad seems to die away;
everywhere is a beautiful effortless peace. Cicely, I came back from
that tramp and I felt content with my lot, content to live amongst these
country folk, speak to them simply once a week of the God of mysteries,
and spend my days wandering about this little corner of the world
beautiful."

"Men have lived such lives," she said quietly, "and found happiness."

"Ay, but there is the other side," he continued, quickly. "Sometimes it
seems as though the love for these things is a beautiful delusion, a
maddening, unreal thing. Then I know that my God is not their God, that
my thoughts would be heresy to them. I feel that I want to cast off the
strange passionate love for the place which holds me here, to go out
into the world and hold my place amongst my fellows. Cicely, surely
where men do great works, where men live and die, that is the proper
place for man? I have no right to fritter away