at him piteously, the big tears standing in those
strange blue eyes of hers, and on her tanned cheeks; but now a curious
sullen expression came over her face. Stooping and picking up the
handkerchief, she tore at it fiercely, first with her hands and
subsequently with her teeth. A kind of angry curiosity caused John to
delay his departure.

"You've no right to make away with Mr. Lambert's handkerchief," he
cried. "If I did what was right I'd give notice to the police."

"Well, why dunnot ye?" she retorted with a fierceness which startled
him. "Ye can if ye've a mind."

And she walked away slowly, still plucking at the handkerchief.

* * * * *

A year later, on just such another Sunday afternoon, John stood on the
same spot with a woman by his side--the woman was Jinny, and Jinny was
his wife. Many things had happened since John had parted in wrath and
bitterness from the girl whom he had once called "Golden Sally." His
demeanour towards his aunt on the momentous morning alluded to had led
to a violent quarrel with her and her husband, which had had
unexpected results, for Jinny had taken his part--Jinny who was the
idol of her parents and the pivot on which the whole establishment
turned. John's whilom indifference had led first to pique on Jinny's
part and then to interest. John, perturbed of spirit and sore of
heart, had been grateful for her favour. The attachment which poor
Sally had for a time diverted was soon re-established, and before six
months had passed the young couple were courting in due form.

Farmer Waring was at first a little annoyed, but consoled himself with
the reflection that blood was thicker than water. He had no son of his
own; it would be pleasant to keep Jinny still at the farm with a
husband whom he could "gaffer" and break in to his own ways; so, by
and by, consent was given, and John Dickinson was treated with great
respect by all at the farm, and already assumed the airs of a master.
As for Sally, he had never set eyes on her since the moment of their
parting. It had once come to his ears that she and her aunt were in
prison for sleeping out of doors, and, shortly after their release,
she had apparently "shifted" with the rest of her family. John thought
of her as little as possible, for the mere recollection of the manner
in which he had been duped, and, as he conceived it, disgraced, filled
him with disgust.

There was certainly no memory of her in his mi