‘She coveted an apple, and was cheated by a snake. But you have got such a hash of Scripture and mythology into your head that there is no making any sense of you. You have not yet told me what you saw kneeling on those hills.’

‘I saw—I now see—a woman-Titan; her robe of blue air spreads to the outskirts of the heath, where yonder flock is grazing; a veil white as an avalanche sweeps from her head to her feet, and arabesques of lightning flame on its borders. Under her breast I see her zone, purple like that horizon; through its blush shines the star of evening. Her steady eyes I cannot picture; they are clear; they are deep as lakes; they are lifted, and full of worship; they tremble with the softness of love and lustre of prayer. Her forehead has the expanse of a cloud, and is paler than the early moon, risen long before dark gathers; she reclines her bosom on the ridge of Stilbro’ Moor; her mighty hands are joined beneath it. So kneeling, face to face she speaks with God. That Eve is Jehovah’s daughter, as Adam was His son.’

‘She is very vague and visionary. Come, Shirley; we ought to go into church.’

‘Caroline, I will not; I will stay out here with my mother Eve, in these days called Nature. I love her—undying, mighty being! Heaven may have faded from her brow when she fell in Paradise, but all that is glorious on earth shines there still. She is taking me to her bosom, and showing me her heart. Hush, Caroline! you will see her and feel as I do, if we are both silent.’

‘I will humour your whim; but you will begin talking again ere ten minutes are over.’

Miss Keeldar, on whom the soft excitement of the warm summer evening seemed working with unwonted power, leaned against an upright headstone; she fixed her eyes on the deep-burning west, and sank into a pleasurable trance. Caroline, going a little apart, paced to and fro beneath the Rectory garden-wall, dreaming, too, in her way. Shirley had mentioned the word ‘mother’; that word suggested to Caroline’s imagination, not the mighty and mystical parent of Shirley’s visions, but a gentle human form—the form she ascribed to her own mother—unknown, unloved, but not unlonged for.

‘Oh that the day would come when she would remember her child! Oh that I might know her, and knowing, lover her!’

Such was her aspiration.

The longing of her childhood filled her soul again. The desire which many a night had kept her awake in her crib, and which fear of its fallacy had of late years almost extinguished, relit suddenly, and glowed warm in her heart—that her mother might come some happy day, and send for her to her presence, look upon her fondly with loving eyes, and say to her tenderly, in a sweet voice: ‘Caroline, my child, I have a home for you: you shall live with me. All the love you have needed, and not tasted, from infancy, I have saved for you carefully. Come; it shall cherish you now.’

A noise on the road roused Caroline from her filial hopes and Shirley from her Titan visions. They listened, and heard the tramp of horses; they looked, and saw a glitter through the trees; they caught through the foliage glimpses of martial scarlet; helm shone, plume waved. Silently and orderly, six soldiers rode softly by.

‘The same we saw this afternoon,’ whispered Shirley; ‘they have been halting somewhere till now. They wish to be as little noticed as possible, and are seeking their rendezvous at this quiet hour, while the people are at church. Did I not say we should see unusual things ere long?’

Scarcely were sight and sound of the soldiers lost, when another and somewhat different disturbance broke the night-hush—a child’s impatient scream. They looked. A man issued from the church, carrying in his arms an infant—a robust, ruddy little boy of some two years old—roaring with all the power of his lungs; he had probably just awaked from a church sleep; two little girls of nine and ten followed. The influence of the fresh air, and the attraction of some flowers gathered from a grave, soon quieted the