ulty, and was, moreover, a very little lady still, in spite
of her peremptory tones, he changed his mind. Striding slowly towards
her, he rather reluctantly closed the book he had been reading, and
placed it in his pocket. Then, without saying a single word, he put
out his hand and taking Snowball's bridle from Joyce he proceeded to
lead the pony carefully and cleverly over the stones.

The silence remained unbroken for a few minutes: the lad buried in his
own thoughts, grave, earnest and preoccupied; the dainty damsel, her
skirt held up now, satisfactorily, on both sides, skipping along, with
glancing footsteps, as she tried to keep up with her companion's
longer paces, and at the same time to remember why this tall, silent
boy seemed to her vaguely familiar. She could not see his face, for it
was turned towards Snowball, and Joyce herself scarcely came up to her
companion's elbow.

They passed a cottage, set back at some distance from the road and
half hidden by a cherry-tree with a few late leaves upon it, crimsoned
by the first touch of November frost. A cherry-tree! The old memory
flashed back in a moment.

'I know who you are,' exclaimed Joyce, 'even though you don't speak a
word. And I know your name. You are Righteous Christer the Weaver's
son, and you are called George, like my father. You have grown so big
and tall I did not know you at first, but now I do. Where do you
live?'

The boy pointed in the direction of the cottage under the cherry-tree.
The gentle whirr of the loom stole through the window as they
approached.

'And I have seen you before,' Joyce went on, 'a long time ago, the
last time we were here, on Sunday. It was in church,' she concluded
triumphantly.

'Aye, in yon steeple-house,' answered her companion moodily, and with
no show of interest. 'Very like.' His eyes wandered from the thatched
roof of the cottage to where, high above the tall old yew-trees, a
slender spire pointed heavenward.

Joyce laughed at the unfamiliar word. 'That is a church, not a
steeple-house,' she corrected. 'Of course it has a steeple, but
wherefore give it such a clumsy name?'

Her companion made no reply. He seemed absorbed in a world of his own,
though still leading the pony carefully.

Joyce, piqued at having her presence ignored even by a village lad,
determined to arouse him. 'Moreover, I have heard Priest Stephens
speak of you to my father,' she went on, with a little pin-prick of
emphasis on each wo