it, had come this love of a child, and with the knowledge that Maurie
could never be hers, the insensate desire to bear children of her
own rose exultantly within her. If she were to marry, this would be
her portion. If she were to marry for that reason, above all, would
she separate herself for ever from the hope--the still flickering
hope--that Traill might one day return?

Whilst one impulse, then, pressed her forward to the seeking of the
better acquaintance with Wilfrid Grierson, the fear that she was
unfit to be the wife of any so honourable as he withheld her.

But fate, circumstance--give it any name that pleases--was in its
obstinate mood. That better acquaintance, it was determined, should
be made.

One afternoon, while Maurie was at his lessons, and her own work for
the day was over, she was walking through those apple orchards which
spread up to the side of that little lane which leads down off the
London Road. Supremely unconscious of whose property it was in which
she was wandering, she suddenly became aware of a figure descending
from one of the apple trees. The first thought that some one was
stealing the fruit was driven from her when she recognized Mr.
Grierson.

Before he had seen her, she had turned and hurried back in the
direction in which she had come. A break in the hedge had given her
entrance from the lane. She made as quickly as possible for that.
But the sound of footsteps running over the soft ground, the hissing
of the grass stems as they lashed against leather leggings, then the
sound of her name, showed her that it was too late. She turned.

"I saw you getting down from the tree," she said evasively, "but I
thought it was a man stealing fruit."

"So you made a bolt for it?"

"Yes; was it very cowardly?"

"Not at all. If it had been a thief, and he'd thought you were
suspicious, he might have turned nasty. But are you sure you didn't
recognize me, and come to the conclusion that I was even less
desirable than the man stealing the apples?"

She laughed nervously, knowing what was before her.

"No; why should I?"

"Because you've been avoiding me for the last ten days, ever since
that tea-party your mother gave at the tennis club."

She looked to the ground; she looked to the forest of leaves above
her head, where the rosy apples peered at her, beaming with their
bright, healthy cheeks.

"You don't say anything to that," he said, striking his leggings with
the little swit