One morning about a week after my visit to the Manor, mother and I chanced to be alone together in the dairy.

I had spent the last days in a trance; I seemed to have lost all count with myself, only, as I look back across the years that intervene, I am certain of one thing—I was glad that the squire loved me.

In the turmoil of surprise, of something akin to fear, of the vague, wretched sense of crookedness throughout, and of a touch of some sort of remorse at what I had unwittingly done, there shone forth one bright, sharp ray of light; it was a sense of pride and satisfaction that this man, whom every day I felt more sure was good and loyal, should have chosen me to love. Beyond that I was sure of nothing, and was chiefly thankful that there was no decision to take, and that I need tell no one of what had happened. The squire had been kind, he had asked no question and needed no answer.

The hop-picking was about to begin, and mother was arranging how much milk should be set apart for the hoppers; she never made her usual quantity of butter in hopping-time; she always said that butter was a luxury, and that she wasn't going to have working-folk deprived of their proper quantity of milk so that those who didn't work should have butter.

Things had not been cheerful at home this while past. To be sure, though I went about my duties with a feverish energy, and mother had no more occasion to upbraid me for those "moping silly ways," I was seeing things myself through a dark haze; yet I do not think it was entirely my fancy that matters seemed gloomy.

I had not been able to get hold of that newspaper that Harrod begged me to keep out of father's way; he had seen it before I got home, and had taken it away with him, and I never found it afterwards; all that I could make out about it had been from Harrod, who had answered my questions somewhat curtly, but had led me to understand that it had been some kind of attack on father for having held aloof from the Liberal cause, with covert allusions to certain reasons for his doing so remotely connected with the condition of his finances.

I could not make head or tail of it at the time, though a day came when I learned how a vile man can suspect an honorable one of his own doings, and then I was thankful to Trayton Harrod for having fired up for father as he had done. But at that time I only saw that father was visibly depressed. I could see that he could scarcely even bear Harrod to talk about the farm matters. There was a dreadful kind of irritability upon him which is piteous now to think of, as I remember how it was varied with moods of strange gentleness towards every one, and of an almost child-like humility towards mother whenever he spoke so much as a keen word to her.

Even to Harrod, with whom I don't think he ever had any real sympathy, he showed sorrow for any sharp speaking by a very patient hearing, from time to time, of all the new schemes of that busy practical mind. But he seemed to have lost his love of argument, once such a feature in him; he seemed to be withdrawing himself more and more into himself. Selfish as I was, and absorbed in my own hopes and fears, it made me sad. Even in his dealing with the Rev. Cyril Morland that feature seemed to have vanished. He was as eager about the philanthropic scheme as ever; more eager, as if with a feverish longing that something he had undertaken should be brought to a good issue quickly; but though the two sat hours together, wrapt over details and figures, it was hard, silent work now, with none of that brilliant enthusiasm that there had been about it in Frank's day, none of the pleasant dreams, none of the sympathetic affection; and when, one evening, I surprised him in his study, standing almost as though entranced before that portrait sketch of the young Camille Lambert, I hated Frank for a new reason for not coming to Marshlands.

But we none of us spoke of him now. Even I did not—not even to Joyce. I had written him that letter that I had intended to write, and was awaiting the answer to it, but I did not speak of him. Mother was the only one who did; she spoke of him that morning in the dairy.

"Meg," she began, "I can't make out how it is that the squire don't come to see us as he used to do. I've sometimes thought that you might have something to do with it."

I looked round quickly. I was alarmed.

"Why on earth should I have anything to do with it?" I cried. But I saw that I was distressing myself needlessly; mother was as far as ever from guessing the truth.

"None so very unlikely, I'm afraid, my dear," she replied. "You're but young, and you might even let a thing slip out without meaning it. And then you're masterful, and you've set your heart upon this affair coming straight between Joyce and the captain, though the Lord alone knows why you should suppose a young butterfly such as that would make a better husband than Squire Broderick. The truth is, Margaret, I'm afraid you have been telling tales."

She had guessed part of the truth, but what a little part of it! I was silent, and she looked at me sharply.

"Of course if you have," said she, severely, "it's just about the worst piece of mischief you could well have set your hands to. That other affair 'll never come to anything, as I guessed pretty well from the first it never would. The dandy young beau has got other fish to fry by this time, and, luckily enough, Joyce is too sensible to fret after a bird that has flown. She never did set that store on him that you fancied, and before the year's out she'd be very sorry to have to keep to her bargain."

"Well, however that may be," answered I, with an inward sense of superiority, "Joyce will never marry the squire, so you needn't bother about that."

"You'll please to keep such remarks to yourself, Margaret," said mother, coldly. "You can't possibly know anything at all about the matter."

Alas! but I was just the one who could and did know everything about the matter. As I think of it now, it is a marvel to me that mother should have guessed nothing at all of what was really going on; but it was too evident that she did not. I suppose her mind was so fixed upon one thing that she thought of nothing else. After all, it is the way with us all.

"Am I to understand that you have been talking nonsense to the squire, then, Margaret?" asked she, in her most dignified manner.

It was not in me to tell a lie.

"I told the squire that Joyce and Frank were engaged," said I, "if that's talking nonsense."

I did not say it crossly. I think my fits of fiery temper were becoming less frequent, but I said it without wincing, although I knew what mother's feelings would be. She sat down in a despairing kind of manner, and drew in her breath, rather than let it out, in a long sigh.

"Engaged!" ejaculated she at last, with a withering accent of scorn.

"Well, it's the truth," insisted I, doggedly.

"No, it's not the truth, Margaret," replied mother, emphatically. "You may choose to consider them engaged, but I don't. And what's more, Joyce don't. I'm thankful to say I've one daughter who always had a grain of good-feeling and respect towards her elders and betters. Your sister never considered herself engaged to the captain."

"They were to be engaged if they were of the same mind in a year," said I. "Well, they are of the same mind so far, so it's practically the same thing."

"I don't think so," said mother, in a conclusive sort of voice. "But I don't need to discuss the matter with you. I must acquaint Squire Broderick that he has been misinformed. And meanwhile I'll trouble you to keep yourself to yourself, and not discuss things that don't concern you with people outside the family."

Of course I deserved the rebuke, and I took it silently. But I could not help feeling a little anxious as to how that proposed conversation between mother and the squire would resolve itself. If mother allowed the squire to see—as I feared she would do—what she supposed to be the state of his feeling, would he be able to keep from telling her that she was mistaken?

It was at the first of the hop-picking that she met him. That odd medley of strange folk who go by the name of "foreigners" among the village hop-pickers had already begun to appear upon the scene, and mother always went down at the beginning of the season to see that the poor creatures were as comfortable as possible in their straw huts, and generally to inquire into the condition of life with them. I can see her now scolding careless mothers for unkempt children, and careless maidens for rent skirts and undarned elbows, inquiring into the cause of pale faces, suggesting remedies, procuring relief.

She had gone down to the camp with Joyce, for she had sent me riding over to Craig's farm for some butter, ours had come so badly. Trayton Harrod overtook me as I came home. I had seen him in the neighboring village, but I had spurred Marigold on, for I did not want to speak with him.

"You shouldn't ride that poor beast so hard, Miss Margaret," I remember him saying as he came up with me; "you'll break her wind."

"Oh dear, no," declared I, laughing harshly, for I was in no soft mood towards him; "she's a very different creature to that old black thing you're riding, and she understands me. Mother's at the hopping to-night, and I want to get on to meet her there."

I lashed the horse again as I spoke, and she started forward wildly. We had just come to the place where there is a short-cut across the marsh, and I set her to the gate. She took it like a deer, and flew as though she were borne on wings when she felt the turf beneath her feet. She made me dizzy for a moment, and when I looked back I saw that Harrod was on the ground—his horse had refused to take the fence. But even as I meditated turning back I saw him leap into the saddle again, and in a few minutes he was beside me once more.

"What possessed you to do that?" he cried, out of breath. "You might have had a serious accident. It was folly."

I did not answer. Indeed the pace at which I was going made speech difficult, and he could not expect it.

"You're going too hard, Miss Maliphant," cried he again. "Stop the mare, if you please."

The peremptory tone irritated me, and far from doing as I was bid, I gave Marigold a touch with the whip. Her blood was already up; she reared and tried hard to throw me. Mr. Harrod leaned forward and caught at her bridle.

"Don't, don't," cried I, petulantly. "You only chafe her; leave her alone."

But still he leaned forward towards me and held on to the horse, and still we thundered on over the soft ground across the empty plain. There was no road; we were quite alone; and at any moment I knew we might come upon some unseen dike that would send Marigold upon her knees and me over her neck.

I knew that if ever I were in danger of my life I was in danger of it then; but the sense of peril, and of the strong arm—that strong arm—ready to save me if it could, his breath that came hot upon my cheek, his eyes that burned upon me though I could not see them—all lifted me into a strange delirium of excitement, of anger, of delight. Yes; I think that, if I thought at all, I wished that that ride might go on forever. But it came to an end soon enough. Marigold stumbled at nothing, she flew straight as an arrow from a shaft, until at last she knew her master, and was still.

"Now, Miss Maliphant," said he, quietly, after a panting minute or two, "won't you be so kind as to give me that whip?"

I looked at him; my cheek was burning, my bosom rose and fell wildly.

"No," answered I; "why should I?"

He smiled. "Well, I know you won't use it again," he answered, almost vexatiously careless of my discourtesy. "I hope you have had a lesson that Marigold can't be tampered with."

"I wasn't in the least bit frightened," I said, in a low voice.

"Upon my word you're a splendid girl," said he, still looking at me.

I felt my face grow redder than ever, but what I had said was no mere boast.

"But I was frightened," added he; and then, in a very gentle voice, "You won't do it again, will you?"

His temper had done me good, his tenderness was almost too much for me.

"No," murmured I; and the sense that he cared made my voice tremble so that I dared say no more.

"A girl doesn't know how soon she has played one prank too many. I can tell you that we ran a greater danger just now than we did when the bull was near tossing you. Do you remember it?"

Did I remember it? Ay, and many other things since then. The thought of them kept me silent, and kept my heart beating till I was afraid he would see it. Ah me, what would I have given to be back again under that five-barred gate, with Trayton Harrod standing over me, and all the future before me! But now—what was the future?

"Will you promise me not to be so foolish again?" repeated he, gently. "There's no fun in breaking one's neck, you know."

My heart was big; he was very kind to me, very careful of me—just as he had been always. I waited—waited for him to say something more, for him to lay his hand once again upon mine, though it were to check Marigold's bridle.

But the mare was going quite quietly now, and there was no need for him to lay his hand on her bridle. He did not seem even to notice that I had not answered his question. We were riding up alongside the hop-fields where the camp was set. Along the lanes groups of village hop-pickers were coming home; whole families, who sallied forth every morning with dinners in bag and basket, and babies in blue-shaded perambulators. The conical straw huts made a circle under the maple hedge, and in the middle of the field the folk were filling their pitchers and kettles at two large water-butts on wheels drawn up there for their use. We tied our horses to the fence, and walked up. The women were beginning to light their fires, and father was expostulating with a tall, handsome girl who had begun to lay hers too near the dangerous straw.

She lifted a pair of splendid eyes upon him, insolently, but the words upon her lips were swamped in a smile, for he had stooped to pick up a crying child, and the little one had stopped its whimper at his tender words, and was gazing up at him confidingly. "It ain't often she takes to strangers," said the young mother. "She's proud and masterful—and a good job too. She ain't got no father to fight for her, and she may well learn not to trust the men-folk."

I don't know what father said, I didn't listen. Mother was talking to the squire in a far corner of the field, and, though I was shy of seeing the squire, I wanted to know what he was saying to mother. But it seemed only to be commonplace talk.

Mother took me to task for my disordered appearance, and asked me what I had been doing to get the mare in such a state, and Harrod came up and gave some kind of explanation for me, and then the squire, shaking hands with me, asked me what I thought of the weather.

He was self-possessed. It was I who was shy and who could find no words.

"I'm afraid we shall have a pocketful of wind," said he, looking up anxiously at the sky.

It was a gorgeous sunset. Banks upon banks and piles upon piles of cloud, fortifying the horizon, and flung wildly across the heavens till, overhead, they were airy puffs upon the blue vault; seas and billows and cataracts of cloud, all of them suffused with rosy remembrance of the fiery furnace on the ridge of the purple downs—a gorgeous sunset; but the squire was right—a stormy one.

"'Tis the Lord sends mists and 'eat, rain and gales, and we've got to submit, whether or no," murmured Reuben behind my back.

"I've thought of late Mr. Harrod seemed anxious about the crop," said mother, "but it's my belief it's above the common."

I looked quickly round for Harrod, afraid lest he should have heard the remark. I need not have feared: he stood beside my sister, with a strange, dreamy look upon his face which I had never seen there before. There was nothing in their standing together side by side, but there was something in the way they thus stood, an indefinable sense of a companionship in suffering which hardened me to stone.

"I wonder you venture to have an opinion on such things, mother," said I, in a voice loud enough for him to hear. "Men don't like us women to have any opinions. They only like women who care for nothing but house-keeping."

Mother looked at me dumfounded, and the squire turned grieved eyes on me; Joyce bent her head, but Harrod glanced round at me with anger on his heavy mouth. Ah me, how sharply two-edged a sword was that bitter pride of mine!

I turned away and began to untie the mare from the hedge. The squire came to help me. He did not speak, but he held my hand a moment longer than usual in his own, and I felt that his trembled. And when he had done at last arranging my habit over the saddle, he looked up at me with that same pity in his blue eyes that had made me feel so strangely a week ago. A disturbed feeling, half pleasure, half pain, stole over me, and as I rode up the steep lane in the dusk, under the arching ash and pine trees, the memory of the squire's face made me feel things less entirely dead and dreary in the midst of those vain and endless self-torturings, those angry struggles, those heart-sickening hopes and fears.