I did not see her on that Sunday, or the next, though twice my boat explored the river between Goring and Pangbourne from early morning until nightfall.  But let me hasten over heart-aching and bitterness, and come to the blessed Sunday when for a second time I saw my love.

Again the day was radiant with summer.  Above, the vaulted blue arched to a capstone of noonday gold.  Hardly a fleecy cloud troubled the height of heaven, or blotted the stream’s clear mirror; save here and there where the warm air danced and quivered over the still meadows, the season’s colour lay equal upon earth.  Before me the river wound silently into the sunny solitude of space untroubled by sight of human form.

But what was that speck of white far down the bank—­that brighter spot upon the universal brightness, moving, advancing?  My heart gave one great leap; in a moment my boat’s bows were high upon the crumbling bank, and I was gazing down the tow-path.

Yes, it was she!  From a thousand thousand I could tell that perfect form as it loitered—­how slowly—­up the river’s verge.  Along heaven’s boundary the day was lit with glory for me, and all the glory but a golden frame for that white speck so carelessly approaching.  Still and mute I stood as it drew nearer—­so still, so mute, that a lazy pike thrust out its wolfish jaws just under my feet and, seeing me, splashed under again in great discomposure; so motionless that a blundering swallow all but darted against me, then swept curving to the water, and vanished down the stream.

She had been gathering May-blossom, and held a cluster in one hand.  As before, her gown was purest white, and, as before, a nodding hat guarded her fair face jealously.

Nearer and nearer she came, glanced carelessly at me who stood bare-headed in the sun’s glare, was passing, and glanced again, hesitated for one agonising moment, and then, as our eyes met, shot out a kindly flash of remembrance, followed by the sweetest of little blushes.

“So you are here again,” she said, as she gave her hand, and her voice made exquisite music in my ear.

“Again?” I said, slowly releasing her fingers as a miser might part with treasure.  “Again?  I have been here every Sunday since.”

“Dear me! is it so long ago?  Only three weeks after all.  I remember, because—­”

The fleeting hope possessed me that it might be some recollection in which I had place, but my illusion was swiftly shattered.

“Because,” the pitiless sentence continued, “mother was not well that evening; in fact, she has been ill ever since.  So it is only three weeks.”

“Only three weeks!” I echoed.

“Yes,” she nodded.  “I have not seen the river for all that time.  Is it changed?”

“Sadly changed.”

“How?”

“Perhaps I have changed.”

“Well, I hope so,” she laughed, “after that wetting;” then, seeing an indignant flash in my eyes, she added quickly, “which you got by so kindly bringing back my boat.”