"Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. The child fell within a short distance of Darrell, who, hearing the splash, struck out in that direction, and caught it before it sank. At Boulogne they took train to Basle; next morning they breakfasted together in the buffet of that station, and thence they caught the Interlaken express, and so went by way of Spies to Frutigen. She could have kissed Cathy. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind.
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