Herminia was still as free as ever from any shrinking terror as to
what "people might say;" as of old, she lived her life for herself
and her conscience, not for the opinion of a blind and superstitious
majority. On one such August morning, they had taken the train from
London to Haslemere, with Dolly of course by their side, and then
had strolled up Hind Head by the beautiful footpath which mounts at
first through a chestnut copse, and then between heather-clad hills
to the summit. At the loneliest turn of the track, where two purple
glens divide, Harvey Kynaston seated himself on the soft bed of
ling; Herminia sank by his side; and Dolly, after awhile, not
understanding their conversation, wandered off by herself a little
way afield in search of harebells and spotted orchises. Dolly found
her mother's friends were apt to bore her; she preferred the society
of the landlady's daughters.
It was a delicious day. Hard by, a slow-worm sunned himself on the
basking sand. Blue dragon-flies flashed on gauze wings in the
hollows. Harvey Kynaston looked on Herminia's face and saw that
she was fair.
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