rms of nature seem
graceful to the sight if not actually beautiful. But there is a
certain melancholy which ever accompanies it. It is the light of
the afternoon, and gives token of the speedy coming of the early
twilight. It tells of the shortness of the day, and contains even in
its clearness a promise of the gloom of night. It is absolute light,
but it seems to contain the darkness which is to follow it. I do not
know that it is ever to be seen and felt so plainly as on the wide
moorland, where the eye stretches away over miles, and sees at the
world's end the faint low lines of distant clouds settling themselves
upon the horizon. Such was the light of this Christmas afternoon, and
both the girls had felt the effects of it before they reached the big
stone on Swindale Fell, from which they intended to look down upon
the loveliness of Hawes Water. As they went up through the wood there
had been some laughter between them over Aunt Greenow's letter; and
they had discussed almost with mirth the merits of Oileymead and
Mr Cheesacre; but as they got further on to the fell, and as the
half-melancholy wildness of the place struck them, their words became
less light, and after a while they almost ceased to speak.

Alice had still her letter in her pocket. She had placed it there
when she came down to breakfast, and had carried it with her since.
She had come to no resolution as yet as to her answer to it, nor had
she resolved whether or no she would show it to Kate. Kate had ever
been regarded by her as her steadfast friend. In all these affairs
she had spoken openly to Kate. We know that Kate had in part betrayed
her, but Alice suspected no such treason. She had often quarrelled
with Kate; but she had quarrelled with her not on account of any sin
against the faith of their friendship. She believed in her cousin
perfectly, though she found herself often called upon to disagree
with her almost violently. Why should she not show this letter to
Kate, and discuss it in all its bearings before she replied to it?
This was in her mind as she walked silently along over the fell.

The reader will surmise from this that she was already half inclined
to give way, and to join her lot to that of her cousin George. Alas,
yes! The reader will be right in his surmise. And yet it was not her
love for the man that prompted her to run so terrible a risk. Had
it been so, I think that it would be easier to forgive her. She was
beginning to thi