NOW, on that very day, and about the same hour in which the conversation just recorded between Elsie and Mrs. Cameron took place, Kenelm, in his solitary noonday wanderings, entered the burial-ground in which Lily had some short time before surprised him. And there he found her, standing beside the flower border which she had placed round the grave of the child whom she had tended and nursed in vain.

The day was cloudless and sunless; one of those days that so often instil a sentiment of melancholy into the heart of an English summer.

“You come here too often, Miss Mordaunt,” said Kenelm, very softly, as he approached.

Lily turned her face to him, without any start of surprise, with no brightening change in its pensive expression,—an expression rare to the mobile play of her features.

“Not too often. I promised to come as often as I could; and, as I told you before, I have never broken a promise yet.”

Kenelm made no answer. Presently the girl turned from the spot, and Kenelm followed her silently till she halted before the old tombstone with its effaced inscription.

“See,” she said, with a faint smile, “I have put fresh flowers there. Since the day we met in this churchyard, I have thought so much of that tomb, so neglected, so forgotten, and—” she paused a moment, and went on abruptly, “do you not often find that you are much too—what is the word? ah! too egotistical, considering and pondering and dreaming greatly too much about yourself?”

“Yes, you are right there; though, till you so accused me, my conscience did not detect it.”

“And don’t you find that you escape from being so haunted by the thought of yourself, when you think of the dead? they can never have any share in your existence here. When you say, ‘I shall do this or that to-day;’ when you dream, ‘I may be this or that to-morrow,’ you are thinking and dreaming, all by yourself, for yourself. But you are out of yourself, beyond yourself, when you think and dream of the dead, who can have nothing to do with your to-day or your to-morrow.”

As we all know, Kenelm Chillingly made it one of the rules of his life never to be taken by surprise. But when the speech I have written down came from the lips of that tamer of butterflies, he was so startled that all it occurred to him to say, after a long pause, was,—

“The dead are the past; and with the past rests all in the present or the future that can take us out of our natural selves. The past decides our present. By the past we divine our future. History, poetry, science, the welfare of states, the advancement of individuals, are all connected with tombstones of which inscriptions are effaced. You are right to honour the mouldered tombstones with fresh flowers. It is only in the companionship of the dead that one ceases to be an egotist.”

If the imperfectly educated Lily had been above the quick comprehension of the academical Kenelm in her speech, so Kenelm was now above the comprehension of Lily. She, too, paused before she replied,—

“If I knew you better, I think I could understand you better. I wish you knew Lion. I should like to hear you talk with him.”

While thus conversing, they had left the burial-ground, and were in the pathway trodden by the common wayfarer.

Lily resumed,—“Yes, I should like to hear you talk with Lion.”

“You mean your guardian, Mr. Melville?”

“Yes, you know that.”

“And why should you like to hear me talk to him?”

“Because there are some things in which I doubt if he was altogether right, and I would ask you to express my doubts to him; you would, would you not?”

“But why can you not express them yourself to your guardian; are you afraid of him?”

“Afraid, no indeed! But—ah, how many people there are coming this way! There is some tiresome public meeting in the town to-day. Let us take the ferry: the other side of the stream is much pleasanter; we shall have it more to ourselves.”

Turning aside to the right while she thus spoke, Lily descended a gradual slope to the margin of the stream, on which they found an old man dozily reclined in his ferry-boat.

As, seated side by side, they were slowly borne over the still waters under a sunless sky, Kenelm would have renewed the subject which his companion had begun, but she shook her head, with a significant glance at the ferryman. Evidently what she had to say was too confidential to admit of a listener, not that the old ferryman seemed likely to take the trouble of listening to any talk that was not addressed to him. Lily soon did address her talk to him, “So, Brown, the cow has quite recovered.”

“Yes, Miss, thanks to you, and God bless you. To think of your beating the old witch like that!”

“‘Tis not I who beat the witch, Brown; ‘tis the fairy. Fairies, you know, are much more powerful than witches.”

“So I find, Miss.”

Lily here turned to Kenelm; “Mr. Brown has a very nice milch-cow that was suddenly taken very ill, and both he and his wife were convinced that the cow was bewitched.”

“Of course it were, that stands to reason. Did not Mother Wright tell my old woman that she would repent of selling milk, and abuse her dreadful; and was not the cow taken with shivers that very night?”

“Gently, Brown. Mother Wright did not say that your wife would repent of selling milk, but of putting water into it.”

“And how did she know that, if she was not a witch? We have the best of customers among the gentlefolks, and never any one that complained.”

“And,” answered Lily to Kenelm, unheeding this last observation, which was made in a sullen manner, “Brown had a horrid notion of enticing Mother Wright into his ferry-boat and throwing her into the water, in order to break the spell upon the cow. But I consulted the fairies, and gave him a fairy charm to tie round the cow’s neck. And the cow is quite well now, you see. So, Brown, there was no necessity to throw Mother Wright into the water, because she said you put some of it into the milk. But,” she added, as the boat now touched the opposite bank, “shall I tell you, Brown, what the fairies said to me this morning?”

“Do, Miss.”

“It was this: If Brown’s cow yields milk without any water in it, and if water gets into it when the milk is sold, we, the fairies, will pinch Mr. Brown black and blue; and when Brown has his next fit of rheumatics he must not look to the fairies to charm it away.”

Herewith Lily dropped a silver groat into Brown’s hand, and sprang lightly ashore, followed by Kenelm.

“You have quite converted him, not only as to the existence, but as to the beneficial power of fairies,” said Kenelm.

“Ah,” answered Lily very gravely, “ah, but would it not be nice if there were fairies still? good fairies, and one could get at them? tell them all that troubles and puzzles us, and win from them charms against the witchcraft we practise on ourselves?”

“I doubt if it would be good for us to rely on such supernatural counsellors. Our own souls are so boundless that the more we explore them the more we shall find worlds spreading upon worlds into infinities; and among the worlds is Fairyland.” He added, inly to himself, “Am I not in Fairyland now?”

“Hush!” whispered Lily. “Don’t speak more yet awhile. I am thinking over what you have just said, and trying to understand it.”

Thus walking silently they gained the little summer-house which tradition dedicated to the memory of Izaak Walton. Lily entered it and seated herself; Kenelm took his place beside her. It was a small octagon building which, judging by its architecture, might have been built in the troubled reign of Charles I.; the walls plastered within were thickly covered with names and dates, and inscriptions in praise of angling, in tribute to Izaak, or with quotations from his books. On the opposite side they could see the lawn of Grasmere, with its great willows dipping into the water. The stillness of the place, with its associations of the angler’s still life, were in harmony with the quiet day, its breezeless air, and cloud-vested sky.

“You were to tell me your doubts in connection with your guardian, doubts if he were right in something which you left unexplained, which you could not yourself explain to him.”

Lily started as from thoughts alien to the subject thus reintroduced. “Yes, I cannot mention my doubts to him because they relate to me, and he is so good. I owe him so much that I could not bear to vex him by a word that might seem like reproach or complaint. You remember,” here she drew nearer to him; and with that ingenuous confiding look and movement which had, not unfrequently, enraptured him at the moment, and saddened him on reflection,—too ingenuous, too confiding, for the sentiment with which he yearned to inspire her,—she turned towards him her frank untimorous eyes, and laid her hand on his arm: “you remember that I said in the burial-ground how much I felt that one is constantly thinking too much of one’s self. That must be wrong. In talking to you only about myself I know I am wrong, but I cannot help it: I must do so. Do not think ill of me for it. You see I have not been brought up like other girls. Was my guardian right in that? Perhaps if he had insisted upon not letting me have my own wilful way, if he had made me read the books which Mr. and Mrs. Emlyn wanted to force on me, instead of the poems and fairy tales which he gave me, I should have had so much more to think of that I should have thought less of myself. You said that the dead were the past; one forgets one’s self when one thinks of the dead. If I had read more of the past, had more subjects of interest in the dead whose history it tells, surely I should be less shut up, as it were, in my own small, selfish heart? It is only very lately I have thought of this, only very lately that I have felt sorrow and shame in the thought that I am so ignorant of what other girls know, even little Clemmy. And I dare not say this to Lion when I see him next, lest he should blame himself, when he only meant to be kind, and used to say, ‘I don’t want Fairy to be learned, it is enough for me to think she is happy.’ And oh, I was so happy, till—till of late!”

“Because till of late you only knew yourself as a child. But, now that you feel the desire of knowledge, childhood is vanishing. Do not vex yourself. With the mind which nature has bestowed on you, such learning as may fit you to converse with those dreaded ‘grown-up folks’ will come to you very easily and quickly. You will acquire more in a month now than you would have acquired in a year when you were a child, and task-work was loathed, not courted. Your aunt is evidently well instructed, and if I might venture to talk to her about the choice of books—”

“No, don’t do that. Lion would not like it.”

“Your guardian would not like you to have the education common to other young ladies?”

“Lion forbade my aunt to teach me much that I rather wished to learn. She wanted to do so, but she has given it up at his wish. She only now teases me with those horrid French verbs, and that I know is a mere make-belief. Of course on Sunday it is different; then I must not read anything but the Bible and sermons. I don’t care so much for the sermons as I ought, but I could read the Bible all day, every week-day as well as Sunday; and it is from the Bible that I learn that I ought to think less about myself.”

Kenelm involuntarily pressed the little hand that lay so innocently on his arm.

“Do you know the difference between one kind of poetry and another?” asked Lily, abruptly.

“I am not sure. I ought to know when one kind is good and another kind is bad. But in that respect I find many people, especially professed critics, who prefer the poetry which I call bad to the poetry I think good.”

“The difference between one kind of poetry and another, supposing them both to be good,” said Lily, positively, and with an air of triumph, “is this,—I know, for Lion explained it to me,—in one kind of poetry the writer throws himself entirely out of his existence, he puts himself into other existences quite strange to his own. He may be a very good man, and he writes his best poetry about very wicked men: he would not hurt a fly, but he delights in describing murderers. But in the other kind of poetry the writer does not put himself into other existences, he expresses his own joys and sorrows, his own individual heart and mind. If he could not hurt a fly, he certainly could not make himself at home in the cruel heart of a murderer. There, Mr. Chillingly, that is the difference between one kind of poetry and another.”

“Very true,” said Kenelm, amused by the girl’s critical definitions. “The difference between dramatic poetry and lyrical. But may I ask what that definition has to do with the subject into which you so suddenly introduced it?”

“Much; for when Lion was explaining this to my aunt, he said, ‘A perfect woman is a poem; but she can never be a poem of the one kind, never can make herself at home in the hearts with which she has no connection, never feel any sympathy with crime and evil; she must be a poem of the other kind, weaving out poetry from her own thoughts and fancies.’ And, turning to me, he said, smiling, ‘That is the poem I wish Lily to be. Too many dry books would only spoil the poem.’ And you now see why I am so ignorant, and so unlike other girls, and why Mr. and Mrs. Emlyn look down upon me.”

“You wrong at least Mr. Emlyn, for it was he who first said to me, ‘Lily Mordaunt is a poem.’”

“Did he? I shall love him for that. How pleased Lion will be!”

“Mr. Melville seems to have an extraordinary influence over your mind,” said Kenelm, with a jealous pang.

“Of course. I have neither father nor mother: Lion has been both to me. Aunty has often said, ‘You cannot be too grateful to your guardian; without him I should have no home to shelter you, no bread to give you.’ He never said that: he would be very angry with aunty if he knew she had said it. When he does not call me Fairy he calls me Princess. I would not displease him for the world.”

“He is very much older than you; old enough to be your father, I hear.”

“I dare say. But if he were twice as old I could not love him better.”

Kenelm smiled: the jealousy was gone. Certainly not thus could any girl, even Lily, speak of one with whom, however she might love him, she was likely to fall in love.

Lily now rose up, rather slowly and wearily. “It is time to go home: aunty will be wondering what keeps me away,—come.”

They took their way towards the bridge opposite to Cromwell Lodge.

It was not for some minutes that either broke silence. Lily was the first to do so, and with one of those abrupt changes of topic which were common to the restless play of her secret thoughts.

“You have father and mother still living, Mr. Chillingly?”

“Thank Heaven, yes.”

“Which do you love the best?”

“That is scarcely a fair question. I love my mother very much; but my father and I understand each other better than—”

“I see: it is so difficult to be understood. No one understands me.”

“I think I do.”

Lily shook her head with an energetic movement of dissent.

“At least as well as a man can understand a young lady.”

“What sort of young lady is Miss Cecilia Travers?”

“Cecilia Travers! When and how did you ever hear that such a person existed?”

“That big London man whom they call Sir Thomas mentioned her name the day we dined at Braefieldville.”

“I remember,—as having been at the Court ball.”

“He said she was very handsome.”

“So she is.”

“Is she a poem too?”

“No; that never struck me.”

“Mr. Emlyn, I suppose, would call her perfectly brought up,—well educated. He would not raise his eyebrows at her as he does at me,—poor me, Cinderella!”

“Ah, Miss Mordaunt, you need not envy her. Again let me say that you could very soon educate yourself to the level of any young ladies who adorn the Court balls.”

“Ay; but then I should not be a poem,” said Lily, with a shy, arch side-glance at his face.

They were now on the bridge, and before Kenelm could answer Lily resumed quickly, “You need not come any farther; it is out of your way.”

“I cannot be so disdainfully dismissed, Miss Mordaunt; I insist on seeing you to at least your garden gate.”

Lily made no objection and again spoke,—

“What sort of country do you live in when at home; is it like this?”

“Not so pretty; the features are larger, more hill and dale and woodland: yet there is one feature in our grounds which reminds me a little of this landscape,—a light stream, somewhat wider, indeed, than your brooklet; but here and there the banks are so like those by Cromwell Lodge that I sometimes start and fancy myself at home. I have a strange love for rivulets and all running waters, and in my foot wanderings I find myself magnetically attracted towards them.”

Lily listened with interest, and after a short pause said, with a half-suppressed sigh, “Your home is much finer than any place here, even than Braefieldville, is it not? Mrs. Braefield says your father is very rich.”

“I doubt if he is richer than Mr. Braefield; and, though his house may be larger than Braefieldville, it is not so smartly furnished, and has no such luxurious hothouses and conservatories. My father’s tastes are like mine, very simple. Give him his library, and he would scarcely miss his fortune if he lost it. He has in this one immense advantage over me.”

“You would miss fortune?” said Lily, quickly.

“Not that; but my father is never tired of books. And shall I own it? there are days when books tire me almost as much as they do you.”

They were now at the garden gate. Lily, with one hand on the latch, held out the other to Kenelm, and her smile lit up the dull sky like a burst of sunshine, as she looked in his face and vanished.