"You promise to listen; I will tell you my story." They sat a few minutes in deep silence, broken only by the singing brook and the music of the birds; a solemn hush seemed to have fallen on them, while the leaves rustled in the wind.
If Ronald Earle's heart and mind had not been filled with another and very different image, he must have seen how fair Valentine looked; the sunlight glinting through the dense green foliage fell upon her face, while the white dress and blue ribbons, the fair floating hair, against the dark background of the bank and the trees, made a charming picture; but Ronald never saw it.

After long years the memory of it came back to him, and he wondered at his own blindness.

He never saw the trembling of the white fingers that played carelessly with sprays of purple foxglove; he never saw the faint flush upon her face, the quiver of her proud, beautiful lips, or the love light in her eyes.

He only saw and thought of Dora.
"I told you, Miss Charteris, last evening, that I was not eloquent," began Ronald.

"When anything lies deep in my heart, I find great difficulty in telling it in words." "All sacred and deep feeling is quiet," said Valentine; "a torrent of words does not always show an earnest nature.