were filled now with trees. The steep walls, twenty feet deep in places, were packed with loose stones, and trailed with hanging brambles. We climbed down the steep bank of the brook, and entered the quarries by the bed of the stream. Under the groves of ash and oak a pale primrose still lingered, glimmering wanly beside the hidden water. Emily found a smear of blood on a beautiful trail of yellow convolvulus. We followed the tracks on to the open, where the brook flowed on the hard rock bed, and the stony floor of the quarry was only a tangle of gorse and bramble and honeysuckle.
“Take a good stone,” said I, and we pressed on, where the grove in the great excavation darkened again, and the brook slid secretly under the arms of the bushes and the hair of the long grass. We beat the cover almost to the road. I thought the brute had escaped, and I pulled a bunch of mountain-ash berries, and stood tapping them against my knee. I was startled by a snarl and a little scream. Running forward, I came upon one of the old, horse-shoe lime-kilns that stood at the head of the quarry. There, in the mouth of one of the kilns, Emily was kneeling on the dog, her hands buried in the hair of its throat, pushing back its head. The little jerks of the brute’s body were the spasms of death; already the eyes were turning inward, and the upper lip was drawn from the teeth by pain.
“Good Lord, Emily! But he is dead!” I exclaimed.
“Has he hurt you?” I drew her away. She shuddered violently, and seemed to feel a horror of herself.
“No — no,” she said, looking at herself, with blood all on her skirt, where she had knelt on the wound which I had given the dog, and pressed the broken rib into the chest. There was a trickle of blood on her arm.
“Did he bite you?” I asked, anxious.
“No — oh no — I just peeped in, And he jumped. But he had no strength, and I hit him back with my stone, and I lost my balance, and fell on him.”
“Let me wash your arm.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, “isn’t it horrible! Oh, I think it is so awful.”
“What?” said I, busy bathing her arm in the cold water of the brook.
“This — this whole brutal affair.”
“It ought to be cauterised,” said I, looking at a score on her arm from the dog’s tooth.
“That scratch — that’s nothing! Can you get that off my skirt — I feel hateful to myself.”
I washed her skirt with my handkerchief as well as I could, saying:
“Let me just sear it for you; we can go to the Kennels. Do — you ought — I don’t feel safe otherwise.”
“Really,” she said, glancing up at me, a smile coming into her fine dark eyes.
“Yes — come along.”
“Ha, ha!” she laughed. “You look so serious.”
I took her arm and drew her away. She linked her arm in mine and leaned on me.
“It is just like Lorna Doone,” she said as if she enjoyed it. “But you will let me do it,” said I, referring to the cauterising.
“You make me; but I shall feel — ugh, I daren’t think of it. Get me some of those berries.”
I plucked a few bunches of guelder-rose fruits, transparent, ruby berries. She stroked them softly against her lips and cheek, caressing them. Then she murmured to herself:
“I have always wanted to put red berries in my hair.”
The shawl she had been wearing was thrown across her shoulders, and her head was bare, and her black hair, soft and short and ecstatic, tumbled wildly into loose light curls. She thrust the stalks of the berries under her combs. Her hair was not heavy or long enough to have held them. Then, with the ruby bunches glowing through the black mist of curls, she looked up at me, brightly, with wide eyes. I looked at her, and felt the smile winning into her eyes. Then I turned and dragged a trail of golden-leaved convolvulus from the hedge, and I twisted it into a coronet for her.
“There!” said I, “you’re crowned.”
She put back her head, and the low laughter shook in her throat.
“What!” she asked, putting all the courage and recklessness she had into the question, and in her soul trembling.
“Not Chloe, not Bacchante. You have always got your soul in your eyes, such an earnest, troublesome soul.”
The laughter faded at once, and her great seriousness looked out again at me, pleading.
“You are like Burne-Jones’s damsels. Troublesome shadows are always crowding across your eyes, and you cherish them. You think the flesh of the apple is nothing, nothing. You only care for the eternal pips. Why don’t you snatch your apple and eat it, and throw the core away?”
She looked at me sadly, not understanding, but believing that I in my wisdom spoke truth, as she always believed when I lost her in a maze of words. She stooped down, and the chaplet fell from her hair, and only one bunch of berries remained. The ground around us was strewn with the four-lipped burrs of beechnuts, and the quaint little nut-pyramids were scattered among the ruddy fallen leaves. Emily gathered a few nuts.
“I love beechnuts,” she said, “but they make me long for my childhood again till I could almost cry out. To go out for beechnuts before breakfast; to thread them for necklaces before supper — to be the envy of the others at school next day! There was as much pleasure in a beech necklace then as there is in the whole autumn now — and no sadness. There are no more unmixed joys after you have grown up.” She kept her face to the ground as she spoke, and she continued to gather the fruits.
“Do you find any with nuts in?” I asked.
“Not many — here — here are two, three. You have them. No — I don’t care about them.”
I stripped one of its horny brown coat and gave it to her. She opened her mouth slightly to take it, looking up into my eyes. Some people, instead of bringing with them clouds of glory, trail clouds of sorrow; they are born with “the gift of Sorrow”; “Sorrows,” they proclaim, “alone are real. The veiled grey angels of sorrow work out slowly the beautiful shapes. Sorrow is beauty, and the supreme blessedness.” You read it in their eyes, and in the tones of their voices. Emily had the gift of sorrow. It fascinated me, but it drove me to rebellion.
We followed the soft, smooth-bitten turf road under the old beeches. The hillside fell away, dishevelled with thistles and coarse grass. Soon we were in sight of the Kennels, the red old Kennels which had been the scene of so much animation in the time of Lord Byron. They were empty now, overgrown with weeds. The barred windows of the cottages were grey with dust; there was no need now to protect the windows from cattle, dog or man. One of the three houses was inhabited. Clear water trickled through a wooden runnel into a great stone trough outside near the door.
“Come here,” said I to Emily. “Let me fasten the back of your dress.”
“Is it undone?” she asked, looking quickly over her shoulder, and blushing.
As I was engaged in my task, a girl came out of the cottage with a black kettle and a tea-cup. She was so surprised to see me thus occupied that she forgot her own
