ll, of course, father's no friend of
yours and perhaps he'll like you worse by and by. But, after all,
does that matter?"

"Not in a way," said Kit, pretending to be dull. "You have nothing to do
with the dispute and we don't want to quarrel with your father, although
we mean to carry out our plans."

Janet looked rather hard at him and there was some color in her face, but
she forced a smile.

"Oh, well! Good-night! I've stopped you, and expect you want to
get home."

She went back through the gate and Kit resumed his walk, struggling with
an annoyance he felt was illogical. He knew something about Bell's
household and imagined that Janet's life was not smooth. He was sorry for
her, and it was, of course, unjust to blame her for her father's deeds.
All the same, the favor she had sometimes shown him was embarrassing. He
was not a philanderer, but he was young and she had made him feel that he
had played an ungallant part. Jane was a flirt, but, after all, it would
not have cost him much, so to speak, to play up to her. Perhaps he had
acted like a prig. This made him angry, although he knew he had taken the
proper line.

By and by he came to the water-splash, where a beck crossed the road. Its
channel was paved, so that one could drive across, and at the side a
stone causeway had been made for foot passengers. Sometimes, when the
beck was unusually swollen, shallow water covered the stones, and Kit saw
the significance of a statement of Janet's as he noted the width of the
submerged spot. It looked as if Jim Nixon had carried her across. Then
his annoyance vanished and he laughed. Gallant or not, he was satisfied
to carry Janet's letter.

As he went on in the moonlight he began to see that there were some
grounds for his reluctance to indulge the girl. He had thought about
Miss Osborn often since he helped her across the stepping stones. He had
not hesitated then, and although the things were different, to dwell
upon the incident was perhaps rasher than indulging Janet. Miss Osborn
had, no doubt, forgotten, but he had not. The trouble was, he could not
forget; his imagination pictured her vividly, sitting beneath the alders
talking to him.

With something of an effort Kit pulled himself up. He was a small
farmer's son and the Osborns were important people. He knew Osborn's
family pride, which he thought his daughter had inherited. In Osborn, it
was marked by arrogance; in the girl by a gracious, half-stately ca