"Now，Jane，you shall take a walk; and with me."

"I will call Diana and Mary."

"No; I want only one panion this morning，and that must be you. put on your things; go out by the kitchen-door: take the road towards the head of Marsh Glen: I will join you in a moment."

I know no medium: I never in my life have known any medium in my dealings with positive，hard characters，antagonistic to my own，between absolute submission and determined revolt. I have always faithfully observed the one，up to the very moment of bursting，sometimes with volcanic vehemence，into the other; and as neither present circumstances warranted，nor my present mood inclined me to mutiny，I observed careful obedience to St. John"s directions; and in ten minutes I was treading the wild track of the glen，side by side with him.

The breeze was from the west: it came over the hills，sweet with scents of heath and rush; the sky was of stainless blue; the stream descending the ravine，swelled with past spring rains，poured along plentiful and clear，catching golden gleams from the sun，and sapphire tints from the firmament. As we advanced and left the track，we trod a soft turf，mossy fine and emerald green，minutely enamelled with a tiny white flower，and spangled with a star-like yellow blossom: the hills，meantime，shut us quite in; for the glen，towards its head，wound to their very core.

"Let us rest here," said St. John，as we reached the first stragglers of a battalion of rocks，guarding a sort of pass，beyond which the beck rushed down a waterfall; and where，still a little farther，the mountain shook off turf and flower，had only heath for raiment and crag for gem- where it exaggerated the wild to the savage，and exchanged the fresh for the frowning- where it guarded the forlorn hope of solitude，and a last refuge for silence.