hat?" she asked gently, still looking at the dance of
sunlight and shadow upon the heather and the water.

"Oh, because they are," I said absurdly enough.

"That's a woman's reason," she observed, "and it should be left to a
woman. Have you nothing more original to say?"

"Well, if I were to tell you a parable, a parable of my own, as you
once told me one of yours, what would happen?"

"I'm sure I don't know," she laughed, "but why trouble about what may
happen? A little risk gives a spice to life, and, anyhow, it can
mostly be run away from at the last moment!"

"Then," said I, fairly and warmly hit by that, "it is the parable of a
maid and a man, the old, old story, in a new setting. They met under
cross circumstances, when things around them were difficult and their
families took separate sides in politics and war. But if it had not
been those very troubles they might never have met, or, what is even
worse, have met too late, as maids and men often do. Perhaps trouble,
because it brought them together in sympathy, also began to bring them
together in heart, that being one road to affection. Love at first
sight? Yes, for a winning face, an elegant figure, a silvery voice, or
even a shapely foot. But that, surely, is the stuff of passion which
may bloom in the morning and fade at night, not love the enduring as, I
promise you, in my parable."

Marget nodded her head, unconsciously, as if some far voice were
calling to her from the spreading country of red heath and green
fir-trees, of dancing sunshine and rippling stream, that lay beneath
us. She did not speak, and I went on:

"You do not in parables say much of people, and never by name, but I
must tell you of my maid, the man, and of the other man who came
between them--nearly! She was all simple charm, yet also of pulsing
womanliness, the healthy product of a country life, a fair survival of
many ordeals. Deep in her nature was that intense power of feeling
which belongs to complete womanhood, as music belongs to an ancient
fiddle. There were strings so sweet and subtle, so strange and strong,
that she herself feared to play on them, and when the man appeared she
greeted him as a friend, nothing more."

Marget waited as I paused, for when one's heart is in one's mouth words
are hard to find, and I am not much in command of them at any time.

"The man," I resumed, "what shall I say of him, for he had no personal
history. He had an old name, how