Chapter IX

           ItwaswonderfulwhenMr.MacNairnandhismothercame.ItwasevenmorebeautifulthanIhadthoughtitwouldbe.Theyarrivedlateintheafternoon,andwhenItookthemoutupontheterracethesunwasreddeningthemoor,andeventherough,graytowersofthecastlewerestainedrose-color.Therewasthatlovelyeveningsoundofbirdstwitteringbeforetheywenttosleepintheivy.Theglimpsesofgardensbelowseemedlikeglimpsesofrichtapestriessetwithjewels.Andtherewassuchstillness!Whenwedrewourthreechairsinalittlegrouptogetherandlookedoutonitall,Ifeltasifwewerealmostinheaven.

           “Yes!yes!”Hectorsaid,lookingslowly—round;“itisallhere.”

           “Yes,”hismotheradded,inherlovely,lovelyvoice.“ItiswhatmadeyouYsobel.”

           Itwassoangelicofthemtofeelitallinthatdeep,quietway,andtothinkthatitwaspartofmeandIapartofit.Theclimbingmoonwastremblingwithbeauty.Tendereveningairsquiveredintheheatherandfern,andthelatebirdscalledlikespirits.

           EversincethenightwhenMrs.MacNairnhadheldmeinherarmsundertheapple-treewhilethenightingalesangIhadfelttowardhersonasifhewereanarchangelwalkingontheearth.Perhapsmythoughtswereexaggerated,butitseemedsomarvelousthatheshouldbemovingamongus,doinghiswork,seeingandtalkingtohisfriends,andyetthatheshouldknowthatatanymomentthegreatchangemightcomeandhemightawakensomewhereelse,inquiteanotherplace.