They both halted on the green brow of the Common: they looked down on the deep valley robed in May raiment; on varied meads, some pearled with daisies, and some golden with king-cups: to-day all this young verdure smiled clear in sunlight; transparent emerald and amber gleams played over it. On Nunnwood—the sole remnant of antique British forest in a region whose lowlands were once all sylvan chase, as its highlands were breast-deep heather—slept the shadow of a cloud; the distant hills were dappled, the horizon was shaded and tinted like mother-of-pearl; silvery blues, soft purples, evanescent greens and rose-shades, all melting into fleeces of white cloud, pure as azury snow, allured the eye as with a remote glimpse of heaven's foundations. The air blowing; on the brow was fresh, and sweet, and bracing."
"Our England is a bonnie island," said Shirley, "and Yorkshire is one of her bonniest nooks."
"You are a Yorkshire girl too?"
"I am—Yorkshire in blood and birth. Five generations of my race sleep under the aisles of Briarfield Church: I drew my first breath in the old black hall behind us."
Hereupon Caroline presented her hand, which was accordingly taken and shaken. "We are compatriots," said she.
"Yes," agreed Shirley, with a grave nod.
"And that," asked Miss Keeldar, pointing to the forest,—"that is Nunnwood?"
