Her reply had been the one iteration: "I love him--I love him--I love
him. We shall be together all our lives, till we are old and grey.
I shall watch him at his work, and listen to his voice. I shall read
with him and walk with him, and I shall grow to think like him a little
--in everything except religion. In everything except that. One day he
will come to think like me--to believe in God."

In the dreamy happiness of these thoughts the colour came to her cheeks,
the roses of light gathered in her eyes. In her tremulous ardour she
scarcely realised how time passed, and her reverie deepened as the
afternoon shadows grew and the sun made to its covert behind the hills.
She was roused by a man's voice singing, just under the bluff where she
sat. To her this voice represented the battle-call, the home-call, the
life call of the universe. The song it sang was known to her. It was as
old as Rizzio. It had come from old France with Mary, had been merged
into English words and English music, and had voyaged to New France.
There it had been sung by lovers in fair vales, on wide rivers, and in
deep forests:

"What is not mine I may not hold,
(Ah, hark the hunter's horn!),
And what is thine may not be sold,
(My love comes through the corn!);
And none shall buy
And none shall sell
What Love works well?"

In the walk back from Vadrome Mountain, a change--a fleeting change--
had passed over Charley's mind and mood. The quiet of the woodland,
the song of the birds, the tumbling brook, the smell of the rich earth,