after the
rain. Her boots made soft little sucking sounds at every step. Nor
was she quite sure of her road back to Mallow by way of the woods. She
had been instructed that somewhere there ran a tiny river which she
must cross by means of a footbridge, and then ascend the hill on the
opposite side. "And after that," Barry had told her, "you can't lose
yourself if you try."

But prior to that it seemed a very probable contingency, and she was
beginning to weary of plodding over the boggy land, alternately slapped
by outstanding branches or--when a little puff of wind raced
overhead--drenched by a shower of garnered raindrops from some tree
which seemed to shake itself in the breeze just as a dog may shake
himself after a plunge in the sea, and with apparently the same
intention of wetting you as much as possible in the process.

At last from somewhere below came the sound of running water, and Nan
bent her steps hopefully in its direction. A few minutes' further
walking brought her to the head of a deep-bosomed coombe, and the mere
sight of it was almost reward enough for the difficulties of the
journey. A verdant cleft, it slanted down between the hills, the trees
on either side giving slow, reluctant place to big boulders,
moss-bestrewn and grey, while athwart the tall brown trunks which
crowned it, golden spears, sped by the westering sun, tremulously
pierced the summer dusts.

Nan made her way down the coombe's steep side with feet that slipped
and slid on the wet, shelving banks of mossy grass. But at length she
reached the level of the water and here her progress became more sure.
Further on, she knew, must be the footbridge which Barry had
described--probably beyond the sharp curve which lay just ahead of her.
She rounded the bend, then stopped abruptly, startled at seeing the
figure of a man standing by the bank of the river. He had his back
towards her and seemed engrossed in his thoughts. Almost instantly,
however, as though subconsciously aware of her approach, he turned.

Nan stood quite still as he came towards her, limping a little. She
felt that if she moved she must surely stumble and fall. The beating
of her heart thundered in her ears and for a moment the river, and the
steep sides of the coombe, and the figure of Peter Mallory himself all
seemed to grow dim and vague as though seen through a thick mist.

"Nan!"

The dear, familiar voice, with an ineffable tenderness in its slow
draw