e, nipping her fingers
and toes, and sending blush-roses into her cheeks.

Joanna was walking along, feeling cheerful, although she was in that
neighbourhood, and vaunting to herself that their moor was infinitely
superior to a park, when a grey object caught her eye, lying beyond
some whin bushes--a thing raised above the ground, but stretched still
and motionless. Joanna stopped with a strange thrill. No! it was not
on that piece of earth; but so must he have lain on that disastrous
morning, far removed from the abundance, and garnered goods, and
heartiness of harvest.

Joanna stood a moment, then reproaching herself with cowardice, egotism,
inhumanity, she advanced, her heart fluttering wildly. Yes, it was a man
in tweed-coat, trousers, and cap; and stay! was that a gun by his side?
Joanna could not go a step further; she closed her eyes to hide the
blood which she felt must be oozing and stealing along the ground, or
else congealed among the heather and it was only after she had told
herself how far she was from home, and how long it would be ere she
could run back for assistance, that she opened them and approached the
figure. There was no blood that she could see; the man might not be
dead, but stupefied or insensible. Oh, dear! it was Harry Jardine of
Whitethorn; the hail-drops among his black curls, the sprigs of the
heather dinted into his brown cheek.

It darted into Joanna's mind like inspiration how the chance had
occurred. She remembered Susan had said, yesterday, that she had met Mr.
Jardine going in shooting garb across the moor in the afternoon, and he
had stopped her and asked if she had seen a dog. He had taken out a new
dog and lost it, and was vexed at wasting half the morning in the
pursuit. She recalled, with a peculiar vividness of perception, that
somebody had observed, one day lately, that Mr. Jardine was not so
strong as he looked; that he had fever while abroad, just before he came
home, and that his mother was annoyed because he would not take care of
himself, and complained that he was constantly over-taxing his
unrecovered powers, and subjecting himself to fresh attacks of illness.
Joanna remembered, with a pang, that she had laughed at the remark,
mentally conjuring up Harry Jardine's athletic, sunburnt comeliness.

Joanna freed herself more quickly from this phantom than from the last,
and, while she did so, called out his name, and stepped to his side,
stooping down and even touching