true. She would not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven.
One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining warmth of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that was the thought of her father.
She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. She felt as if she had struck them unawares. The thought of them distressed her without subtracting at all from the oceans of happiness in which she swam. But she wished she could put the thing she had done in some way to them so that it would not hurt them so much as the truth would certainly do. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt's, as it would meet the fact—disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again.
"Oh! I wish," she said, "that people thought alike about these things."
Capes watched the limpid water dripping from his oar. "I wish they did," he said, "but they don't."
"I feel—All this is the rightest of all conceivable things. I want to tell every one. I want to boast myself."
"I know."
"I told them a lie. I told them lies. I wrote three
