kfast. It was arranged that, all things considered, we had better
not be married for a year.

I remember our gathering round the fire that evening, the curtains
unclosed, the mild moonshine behind the window, the room half black
shade and half red light, the dear faces beaming round. That evening I
wrote my letter to Grace Tyrrell to say that I should not go to London.
That evening, also, there came a letter from Mr. Hill to John, saying
that he hoped to arrive at the Hall on the morrow or next day. At tea we
talked about Rachel Leonard. Thinking of her, the scene at the party
came vividly back--the occasion on which I had defended Mr. Hollingford
so hotly; and also my conversation with Grace Tyrrell on the subject in
the carriage coming home. After musing a little while, I said:

"John, are you quite sure that you never met Miss Leonard when you were
abroad?"

"Quite," said John, looking at me curiously. "Why do you ask me that
question so often, Margery?"

"Have I asked it often?" I said, "I don't remember; but I fancied from
her manner that she knew something about you."

"It is not likely," said John, "for I know nothing about her." And so
this matter dropped.

CHAPTER VI.

John made me promise to go out to meet him next morning on his return
from his early walk across the farm. I remember so well how gladly I
sprang from my bed that morning, how tedious my dressing seemed, and yet
how I lingered over it at the last, anxious to make myself more pleasing
in the eyes which I knew would be watching for me from the hill. I
remember how, in the tenderness of my joy, I opened my sash to feed the
robins, and how gay and fair the world looked in its robe of white. I
remember how I ran after a little beggar boy to give him sixpence, and
how afterwards I went along the path through the fields singing aloud
for mere happiness. And yet a little cloud had already risen out of the
glories of the shining East, and was spreading and moving towards me.

John and I walked home together, side by side, and we talked the
happiest talk that ever was written or spoken. The world was all radiant
over our heads and under our feet, and we could not see even the shadow
of the cloud that was coming, fast as the wheels that were rolling
towards us from the distance.

"Look, Margery!" said John, "do you see a carriage on the road?"

I shaded my eyes with my hand, and I saw the carriage.

"I daresay it is the Hills'," I said,