well-dressed, and it
was plainly to be seen that they were strongly differentiated from
those women whom it was his lot to meet. He had barely gone half-way
across the field, when he stood still and gazed at one of them like a
man spell-bound. He recognised her as the girl whom he had met in
Sutcliffe's shop. Scarcely knowing what he did, he stood still in the
path, thus making it impossible for them to pass him. Preston,
evidently deep in his calculations about the looms he proposed to buy,
had for the moment forgotten Paul's presence and had left him behind.

"Will you kindly stand aside?"

Paul recognised the speaker. It was the daughter of Edward Wilson, but
he paid no heed to her, he was gazing intently at the other, and he saw
the colour mount to her cheeks as their eyes met. He had taken but
little notice of her when he had first seen her. He recognised that
she belonged to a class entirely different from his own, but he
remembered little else beyond the anger which she evidently felt
towards him. That she had resented his words was evident, but to that
he had attached but little importance; now, however, all was different.
He could not understand how or why--she had not only crossed the
pathway of his life, but she had entered his life. She seemed to
arouse within him all sorts of unthought-of possibilities. His ideas
of the world became different. She made him think of the poetry and of
the romance of life, even although she still looked upon him with
scorn, if not with anger. The morning had been rainy, and the long
grass on either side of the pathway was as wet as a pond, but he did
not move aside that she might pass by, in spite of what her companion
had said. Neither did he speak, but stood looking at her. She was
utterly different from Emily Wilson, whom he had often seen; indeed,
the poles seemed to lie between them. Miss Wilson was tall and largely
made, and, in spite of the fact that her dressmaker was an artist,
seemed to look poor and shabby beside the stranger. This girl was
almost diminutive, and yet she carried herself like a queen. He could
not have described a single feature, and yet he knew he would never
forget her face. It made him think of the fields around St. Mabyn. It
caused him to remember the love song of the birds, the music of a
streamlet, as it murmured its way down a valley near his old home. It
suggested the countryside, far removed from the smoke and grime of t