But the reader will, perhaps, recall enough instances in a private and unrecorded history to fill the need of illustration.

It suffices, then, to say that, each afternoon that Gordon Keith wandered with Alice Yorke through the leafy woods, he was straying farther in that perilous path where the sunlight always sifts down just ahead, but the end is veiled in mist, and where sometimes darkness falls.
These strolls had all the charm for him of discovery, for he was always finding in her some new trait, and every one was, he thought, an added charm, even to her unexpected alternations of ignorance and knowledge, her little feminine outbreaks of caprice.

One afternoon they had strolled farther than usual, as far even as the high pines beyond which was the great rock looking to the northeastward.

There she had asked him to help her up to the top of the rock, but he had refused.

He told her that she had walked already too far, and he would not permit her to climb it.
"Not permit me! Well, I like that!" she said, with a flash of her blue eyes; and springing from her seat on the brown carpet, before he could interpose, she was climbing up the high rock as nimbly as if she were a boy.
He called to her to stop, but she took no heed.