n come back now and tell her," said Diana, tugging at him as if to
make him turn.

"But look at my hands," he said, half in jest, half in earnest. "See
how rough and stained they are! I shall always be a workman, and I
shall always be very poor."

"Margaret doesn't care anything about that," she protested. "She's not
that sort of girl. Do come back, please, Morgan. Mamma's reading
downstairs. I'll steal up to Marjy and tell her you're waiting for
her. If you stand under the window, I'm sure you'll hear her crying.
Come along, Morgan, you can take ever such a nice walk together,
and----"

"And,"--he echoed stupidly.

"Oh, I was going to say I'll be glad to get the pair of you off my
hands."

"I'm afraid that pleasure will have to be postponed indefinitely," he
observed. "And now, Diana," he added, as sternly as he could, "you
must be going back home without me--that is, I'll see you safe to
where the houses begin."

"Morgan, you're a brute!" she answered with equal sternness. "But I
mean to get to the bottom of this mystery all the same. I'll make a
bet with you. How long do you give me to find out?"

"Ten years," said Morgan. He had now turned back with her.

"Ten years!" she echoed mockingly. "Why there'll be any number of
olive-branches by then. Yours, of course, I mean."

"Diana! You are a very wicked girl."

"Well, I'm fourteen. That's quite old enough to be wicked, isn't it?
Good-night, Morgan." And she suddenly sped ahead, and before he could
recover from his astonishment she had become a shadow amid the
darkness.

He strode after her, though he had not the least anxiety for her, as
they were not yet a mile distant from the cottage. From the speed with
which she kept ahead of him, it was clear she was determined to elude
him; seeing which he contented himself with keeping within range of
her.

When, eventually, he turned towards Dover again, it was with a
feeling of half-sorrow that he should have happened to take that walk.
Strong and firm as he was, he was not strong enough to endure such
ordeals. He had winced most whilst Diana had been speaking to him. And
then the figure of Cleo came up again. Cleo, to whom he was married!

In the depression that now came upon him, a friendship with Margaret,
even years hence, seemed an impossibility to him. She might remain
with him as an ideal figure, but the real living Margaret was too
dazzling for him to look upon.

CHAPTER V.

Morgan did no