est, or Aldous Raeburn understood what she was doing.

A vexed word from Miss Harden enlightened him, and he went after the
fugitive, overtaking her just where his gun and dog lay, outside the
churchyard.

"Let me go, Miss Boyce," he said, as he caught her up. "My dog and I
will run there and back."

But Marcella hardly looked at him, or paused.

"Oh no!" she said quickly, "I should like the walk."

He hesitated; then, with a flush which altered his usually quiet,
self-contained expression, he moved on beside her.

"Allow me to go with you then. You are sure to find fresh loads to bring
back. If it's like our harvest festival, the things keep dropping in all
day."

Marcella's eyes were still on the ground.

"I thought you were on your way to shoot, Mr. Raeburn?"

"So I was, but there is no hurry; if I can be useful. Both the birds and
the keeper can wait."

"Where are you going?"

"To some outlying fields of ours on the Windmill Hill. There is a tenant
there who wants to see me. He is a prosy person with a host of
grievances. I took my gun as a possible means of escape from him."

"Windmill Hill? I know the name. Oh! I remember: it was there--my father
has just been telling me--that your father and he shot the pair of
kestrels, when they were boys together."

Her tone was quite light, but somehow it had an accent, an emphasis,
which made Aldous Raeburn supremely uncomfortable. In his disquiet, he
thought of various things to say; but he was not ready, nor naturally
effusive; the turn of them did not please him; and he remained silent.

Meantime Marcella's heart was beating fast. She was meditating a _coup_.

"Mr. Raeburn!"

"Yes!"

"Will you think me a very extraordinary person if I ask you a question?
Your father and mine were great friends, weren't they, as boys?--your
family and mine were friends, altogether?"

"I believe so--I have always heard so," said her companion, flushing
still redder.

"You knew Uncle Robert--Lord Maxwell did?"

"Yes--as much as anybody knew him--but--"

"Oh, I know: he shut himself up and hated his neighbours. Still you knew
him, and papa and your father were boys together. Well then, if you
won't mind telling me--I know it's bold to ask, but I have reasons--why
does Lord Maxwell write to papa in the third person, and why has your
aunt, Miss Raeburn, never found time in all these weeks to call on
mamma?"

She turned and faced him, her splendid eyes one challenge.