I enjoyed the days I spent on foot with
Nicolete none the less because they passed in tranquil
uneventfulness,--that is, without events of the violent kind. Of
course, all depends on what you call an event. We were not waylaid by
robbers, we fed and slept unchallenged at inns, we escaped collision
with the police, and we encountered no bodily dangers of any kind; yet
should I not call the journey uneventful, nor indeed, I think, would
Nicolete.

To me it was one prolonged divine event, and, with such daily
intercourse with Nicolete, I never dreamed of craving for any other
excitement. To walk from morning to evening by her side, to minister
to her moods, to provide such entertainment as I might for her brain,
and watch like a father over her physical needs; to note when she was
weary and too proud to show it, and to pretend to be done up myself; to
choose for her the easiest path, and keep my eyes open for wayside
flowers and every country surprise,--these, and a hundred other
attentions, kept my heart and mind in busy service.

To picnic by some lonely stream-side on a few sandwiches, a flask of
claret, and a pennyworth of apples; to talk about the books we loved;
to exchange our hopes and dreams,--we asked nothing better than this
simple fare.

And so a week went by. But, though so little had seemed to happen, and
though our walking record was shamefully modest, yet, imperceptible as
the transition had been, we were, quite insensibly indeed, and
unacknowledged, in a very different relation to each other than when we
had started out from the Morning Star. In fact, to make no more words
about it, I was head over heels in love with Nicolete, and I think,
without conceit, I may say that Nicolete was rapidly growing rather
fond of me. Apart from anything else, we were such excellent chums. We
got along together as if indeed we had been two brothers, equable in
our tempers and one in our desires.

At last the feeling on my side became so importunate that I could no
longer keep silence.

We were seated together taking tea at a small lonely inn, whose windows
looked out over a romantic little lake, backed by Salvator Rosa
pine-woods. The sun was beginning to grow dreamy, and the whole world
to wear a dangerously sentimental expression.

I forget exactly what it was, but something in our talk had set us
glowing, had touched tender chords of unexpected sympathy, and
involuntarily I stretched out my hand across th