trayton harrod did not leave knellestone. i think we had to thank the squire for that. father and he being so proud and obstinate, they would never have come to an understanding alone, nor would either certainly have accepted me for a mediator.

i don't know whether mr. broderick persuaded father to ask his bailiff to remain, or how the matter was arranged. i only know that a few days after the squire's return i met harrod down at the haymaking on the eastern marsh, and that he told me he was not going to leave us. i remember very well how he told it me with a smile; not that quick flash which i have sometimes noticed before as being characteristic of him when moved to sudden mirth, but a kind of half-smile that had something triumphant in it.

"yes," he said, looking round on the meadows that were ready for the scythe, "we shall have a mowing-machine on them before the week's out."

that was all; but the words told me he was going to remain. i know i looked up with an answering smile of satisfaction, but it faded as i saw jack barnstaple's gloomy eye fixed on me. the very silence of a faithful servant reproved me for my disloyalty. for in my first content i had forgotten that satisfaction to such a speech was disloyalty to father, to the horror of machines that had always been my creed till now.

"i'm sorry—" i began, but then i stopped, confused. i was too honest to tell a lie. how could i say that i was sorry he had triumphed? he turned and said some word to the laborer, and i had time to lose my sudden blushes. had he noticed them? i think i scarcely cared. i was strangely happy.

all that day i was happy. in the eventide we followed the last wagon up the hill. tired horses, teased to madness by the ox-fly in the heat, tired men shouldering their forks, tired women in curious sun-bonnets, and girls not too tired yet to laugh with the lads, went before, and we two followed afterwards, not at all tired of anything—at least i speak for myself.

a long line of flame marked the horizon behind the hill and upon the red sky, the houses of the village, the three roofs and the square tower of the old church, the ivied grayness of the ancient gate-way, and the solitary pines that marked the ridge here and there, all lay dark upon the brightness, their shapes defined and single. close behind us the sea was cool and fragrant. upon the hem of the wide soft sands that shone in sunset reflections, a regal old heron had fetched his evening meal from out of the little pools that the sea had left, and unfolding his huge pinions, sailed away in a queer oblique and apparently leisurely flight to the tall trees that were his inland home. we left the haymakers to take the road, and followed the heron across the marsh.

a wheat-ear's nest that i found in a furrow and carried home with its five little dainty blue eggs gave rise to a discussion about the rarity of these pretty little structures compared with the numbers of the tiny builders who are so plentiful in harvesting that the shepherds make quite a perquisite from the sale of them; an old hare that the bailiff started from its form on the unbeaten track made him wonder at the unusual size of these marsh inhabitants, and as we came along the dike where the purple reeds were already growing tall, i remember his noticing how changing was their color on the surface as they swayed in great waves beneath the breeze, how blue one way, how silver-gray the other; i recollect every word that we spoke.

it was commonplace talk enough, but it was the talk that had first begun to bind us together, and now there was beginning to be something in it that made every word very much the reverse of commonplace to me. what was it?

i did not ask myself, but i knew very well that since that night when trayton harrod had promised to try and remain on knellestone, because i had asked him to do so, that something had grown very fast, so fast that i was conscious of a happy state of guilt, and wondered whether old deborah knew anything about it as she watched me bid the bailiff good-bye at the gate while she was picking marjoram on the cliff-garden above our heads.

i know that at first i was angry because of her keen little dark eyes and her short little laugh, and i loftily refused to discuss either with her or with reuben the advantages of mr. harrod's remaining on the farm, or the indignity of having machinery at knellestone and southdowns on the marsh. there was no delay about either of these matters. mr. harrod was a prompt man. i recollect the very day he bought the sheep—yes, i recollect it very well. it was a very hot day, one of the first days of july. he had had the mare—my restive mare—put into the gig, and had started off very early in the morning to ashford market. it was a long way to ashford market, but you could just do it and get back in the day if you started very early, and if you had a horse like my mare to go. there was a haze over the sea and even over the marsh; down in the hayfield, where i had been all the morning, the heat was almost unbearable. when five o'clock came i went in to mother in the parlor.

"it's such a nice evening for a ride, mother," said i. "i think i'll just take that pot of jelly over to broadlands to old mrs. winter. she'd be pleased to see me."

mother looked up, surprised. "i thought you didn't care for riding that old horse," said she.

"well, i can't have the mare, so it's no use thinking of it," i answered.

"you can't have her to-day, because the bailiff has got her, but you can have her to-morrow," said mother. "and it's full late to start off so far."

i walked to the window and looked out. "i think i'll go to-day," said i. "it may blow up for rain to-morrow. as likely as not we shall have a storm. it's light now till after nine."

"very well," said mother; "you can please yourself. you'd better take some of that stuff for the old body's rheumatism as well."

so i put on my habit and set out. it was quite true that the old black horse did not go so well as the mare, but for some reason best known to myself i had a particular desire to ride to broadlands that particular afternoon.

i let the poor beast go at his own pace, however, for the heat was still very great; the plain was opal-tinted with it, and the long, soft, purple clouds above the sea horizon had a thundery look. i jogged along dreamily until i was close beneath the old market-town upon the hill. somehow the memory of that winter drive with joyce, when we had first met captain forrester, came back to me vividly. i don't know how it was, but i began to think of how he had looked at her, of how he had bent towards her hand just a moment longer than was necessary in parting from her. i wondered if those were always the signs of love. i wondered if a man might possibly be in love and yet give none of those signs.

i rode on slowly, watching the rising breeze sweep across the meadows, swaying the long grass in a rhythmic motion like the waves of a gentle sea. i had passed the town by this time, and had come down the little street paved with cobble-stones, and through the grim old gate onto the marsh again. the river ran turbidly by, between its mud banks and across its flat pastures to the sea a mile beyond. above the river the houses of the town stood, in steps, up the hill, flanked by the dark gray stone of the old prison-house, and crowned by the church with its quaint flying-buttresses; the wall of the battlements hemmed the town; beneath it lay the marsh and then the sea.

this was all behind me; around and in front was the faint, gray flat land, scarcely green under the creeping haze of heat, with the breeze undulating over the long grass, and the light-house, the brightest spot on the scene as it shone white through the mist, on the distant point of beach.

i took the shortest way, avoiding the regular road, and was soon lost upon the grassy sea. the soft, bright monotony of the landscape was scarcely broken by a single incident, save for the martello towers that stood at regular intervals along the coast, or the sheep and cows that were strewn over the pasture-land lazily cropping and chewing the cud; there was not a house within sight, and even the low line of the downs had dipped here into the flatness of the marsh.

i tried to whip the horse into a canter, but the poor beast felt the heat as i did, and i soon let him fall again into his own jog-trot. it was not at all my usual method of riding, but that day i did not mind it so much; i had my thoughts to keep me busy. they were pleasant thoughts—if so vague a dream was a thought at all—and kept me good company. the dream was a dream of love, but i am not sure whether that time joyce was the heroine. i think, if i had been asked, that i should have said that there was no heroine to my dream—that it was far too vague, too entirely a dream to have one.

i rode on for another hour across the hot plain before i came to the village of broadlands. it lay there sleepily upon the bosom of the marsh, with scarce a tree to shelter it from the fierce midsummer sun or the wild sea winds, and until my horse's hoofs were clattering up the little street i scarcely saw man, woman, or child to tell me that the place was alive. but around the woolsacks some half-dozen men lounged, smoking, and a fat farmer in a cart had stopped in the middle of the road to exchange a few observations on agricultural news. it was the inn at which trayton harrod must have put up in the middle of the day for dinner.

this farmer had evidently returned from market. i wondered how long it would be before trayton harrod would also come along the same road and stop at the woolsacks for a drink. i don't think i deceived myself as to there being a little hope within me that i might meet him somewhere on the road. but i reckoned that he could not possibly be as far on his homeward route yet a while, for he probably had had much farther to come than the farmer in the cart, and had not reached the market so early.

i trotted on up the street to mrs. winter's cottage, which stood at the extreme end of the village, looking out along the ashford road. i am afraid that all the time i was in the cottage—although i gave all mother's messages, and inquired with due attention after every one of the old lady's distinct pains—my eyes were ever wandering along that dusty road and listening for horse's hoofs in the distance.

but mrs. winter noticed no remissness on my part—she was too pleased to see me, too glad to have news of mother, who had been her friend and benefactress these many years past. i took her a pair of stockings that i had knit for her in the long winter evenings, and i can remember now the matter-of-fact way in which she received the gift, and how, when i said that i hoped they would fit, she answered, with happy trustfulness, "oh yes, miss; the lord he knows my size."

we drank tea out of the white-and-gold cups that had been best ever since i could remember, and then she kissed me and bade me be going lest the darkness should overtake me.

i laughed, and declared that the long twilight would more than last me home; for i did not want to be going until i was sure that mr. harrod was on my road; the vague hope that i had had of meeting him had grown into a settled determination to wait for him if i could. but the old lady would not be pacified by any assurances that i was not afraid of darkness; and to be sure there was a strange shade in the air as i got outside and mounted the black horse again.

when i got beyond the village again i saw what it was—there was a sea-fog creeping up the plain. such fogs were common enough in the hot weather, and gave me no concern at all; but i saw with some dismay that the sun must have set some time, for the twilight was falling in the clear space that still existed above the mist.

i looked back upon the road. surely he could not have passed. i could not bear to give up the hope of this ride home with him, and yet i scarcely dared loiter lest mother should grow anxious. i put the beast to a gentle trot and rode forward slowly. i knew of no other way that harrod could have taken, and i felt sure that he had not passed that cottage without my knowledge.

but the mist thickened. i could not see before me or behind; it was not until i was close upon it that i could tell where the path branched off that led across the meadows to the town. it did not strike me at the time that i was foolish to take it; i only wondered whether harrod would be sure to come that way. i only thought of whether i should recognize the sound of the mare's trot, for that was the only means by which i could be sure of his approach before he was close upon me.

i rode on slowly, listening always. i rode on for what seemed to me to be a very long time. the mist was chill after the hot day, and i had no covering but my old, thin, blue serge habit, which had seen many a long day's wear.

the fog gathered in thickness, and darkened with the darkness of the coming night. i began to think that, after all, i had made a mistake in taking the short-cut. perhaps mr. harrod had kept to the high-road, as safer on such a night; perhaps thus i should miss him. i was not at all afraid of the fog, but i was very much afraid of missing the companion for whose sake i had come this long ride on a hot day. and with the fear in my mind that i might miss him, i did a very foolish thing—i turned back upon my steps. i put the horse to a canter, and turned back to regain the high-road. i rode as fast as i could now, urging the beast forward; but though i rode for a much longer distance than i had ridden already since i left mrs. winter's cottage, i saw no trace of the road.

i stood still at last and tried to determine where i was. my heart was beating a little. presently—through the stillness, for the air was absolutely lifeless—i heard the sound of voices. i listened eagerly. but, alas! there was no sound of horse's hoofs: the wayfarers, whoever they were, were on their feet. mr. harrod could scarcely be one of them. i stopped, waiting for them to come up. they were tramps. their figures looked wavering and uncertain as they came towards me through the mist. they walked with a heavy lounging gait, smoking their clay pipes.

"can you tell me if i'm in the right way for the high-road?" said i, as they came within ear-shot.

they stopped, and one of them burst into a laugh and said something afterwards in an undertone to his companion.

"you're a long way from wherever it is you're bound for," said he; and as he spoke he came up to me and took hold of the horse's bridle.

something in his face displeased me. i gave him a sharp cut across it with my whip. he yelled with rage, but he let go the bridle; and another cut across the horse's neck sent him forward with his hind-hoofs in the air. i had never known him answer like that to the whip before. i think he can have liked the look of the men no better than i did.

before i knew that there was a dike before me, i found myself safely landed on the other side of it; and it was only then that i pulled the poor old beast up and looked round. of course i could see nothing: the mist would have been too thick, even had the growing darkness not been sufficient to obscure any object not close at hand. but i could hear no voices, and i felt that i was safe.

how a girl, with nothing but a little whip in her hand, had prevailed against two strong men—even though she was on a horse and they on foot—i did not pause to consider. i was safe; but the little adventure had frightened me, and i thought i would try to get home as fast as i could.

but how? i was absolutely uncertain where i was. i had crossed a dike, which i should not have done; but one dike was much like another, and that was no guide. i could see nothing, and i could hear nothing.

nothing? yes; as i listened i did hear something. it was the sound of distant waves lapping gently upon the beach. i must indeed have strayed far from the high-road if i had come near enough to the sea to hear the sound of its waves. i stopped and waited again. i thought i would wait until those men had got well ahead. then, after a while, i put the horse across the dike again, and went forward slowly, straining every nerve to determine whether the sound of the sea was growing louder or less in my ears.

i felt sure after a while that it was growing less, and yet i could not be absolutely certain, for there was a strange feeling in my head; and i was soon obliged to acknowledge to myself that i was getting very sleepy. the mist, i knew, was apt to make people sleepy if they were out long in it; but i had often been out in a sea-fog before, and i had never felt so sleepy. i wondered what o'clock it was. i struggled on a little longer, but i felt that unless i were to walk i should fall off the horse, so i got down and led him on by the bridle. for another reason it was better to walk—i was chilled to the bone.

i turned the end of my habit up over my shoulders, and although it was wringing wet, it served as a kind of poultice; but i cannot say that i was either cheerful or comfortable. the night was perfectly still, the mist perfectly dense. once a hare, startled i suppose by the sound of the horse's hoofs, ran across in front of me, and retreated into his form; but i think that that was the only time i saw a living thing.

i got so used to the silence and loneliness that when at last another sound began to mingle with the monotonous tread of the weary beast, i scarcely noticed it. perhaps it was because it was only an increase of the same sound: it was the tread of another weary beast. but whether that was the reason, or whether it was that i was gradually growing more and more sleepy, certain it is that the sound grew to a point, and then began slowly to fade away again before i was quite conscious of its existence. then suddenly i realized what it might be, and with all the strength of my being i shouted through the mist.

once—twice i shouted, and then i stood still and listened. the sound of the hoofs and the wheels—yes, the wheels—still went on faintly. my heart grew sick, and again i shouted into the night; this time it was almost a cry. the wheels stopped. i shouted again, and there came back a faint holloa that told me how much fainter still must have been my own voice through the fog.

i leaped onto the horse, and urged him forward as near as i could tell in the direction of the voice. and all the time i continued shouting.

thank heaven! i heard the answering cry clearer and clearer each time. at last—at last i saw a horse and gig just discernible through the steaming darkness.

"who is there?" cried a voice; and—how can i describe my happiness?—it was the voice of trayton harrod.

i don't think i answered. i think there was something in my throat which prevented me from answering; but he must have recognized me at once, for he gave vent to an exclamation which i had never heard him use before—he said, "great heavens!" then he got down out of the gig, and came towards me quickly.

"miss margaret!" he exclaimed. "how did you ever get here?"

i had recovered my usual voice by this time, and i replied, quietly enough, to the effect that i had been on an errand to broadlands, and had lost myself coming home in the fog.

"lost yourself! i should think you had lost yourself," ejaculated he, half angrily. "i was uncertain of my own road before you called, but i know well enough that you are entirely out of the beaten track here."

"oh, then i'm afraid i shall have made you miss your way too," said i, apologetically.

i don't know what had come to me, but i was so glad to see him that i could not bear he should be angry with me.

"that doesn't signify in the least," said he. "it's you of whom i am thinking. i am afraid you must be cold and tired, and i fear we shall be a long while getting home yet." he was close to me now. "you had better get into the gig," said he; "i'll tie the horse to it."

he held out his hands to help me down, and i put mine in his.

"why, you are chilled to the bone," murmured he. "you'll take your death of cold."

he lifted me from the horse, for indeed i was numb with the penetrating damp, and led me to the gig. then he took the horse-cloth which lay across the seat and wrapped it round me as tightly as he could.

"haven't you a pin?" he asked.

i tried to laugh but i could not; something stuck in my throat.

"i thought women always had pins," he added.

then i did laugh a little; but i must have been very much tired and overwrought, for the laugh turned into a sort of sob. i could only hope he did not notice it. he made no remark, at all events; he only wrapped the rug as closely as he could around me, and took hold of my hands again, as though to feel if they were any warmer. he held them in his own a long time; he held them very fast. the blood seemed to ebb away from my heart as i stood there with my hands in his. my face was turned away, but i felt that his keen dark eyes were fixed upon mine, concernedly, tenderly. a strange, new happiness filled my whole being; i did not know what it meant, but i knew that i wanted to keep on standing there like that, in spite of the cold and the dampness and the dark; i knew that what i felt was sweeter than any joy that had come to me before in my life.

but trayton harrod took away his hands. he passed his arm round my waist, and holding me by my elbows so as not to displace the plaid which he had wrapped so carefully around me, he helped me up into the gig. i let him do just what he liked. i, who had been so defiant and proud before, and who thought that i scorned such a thing as a beau, i was letting this man behave to me just as captain forrester might have behaved to joyce; i was as wax in his hands. i did not think of that at the time; i do not know that i ever thought of it. it only strikes me now as i write it down.

i sat there without saying a word while harrod fetched the horse and tied him to the back of the gig. i was not conscious of anything, save that i was perfectly contented, and waiting for him to come up and sit beside me. all my fatigue had disappeared, all my desire to be home, all my remembrance of mother's anxiety.

but why should i dwell further upon all this? if any one ever reads what i have written, they will understand what i felt far better than i can describe it. every one knows that love is self-absorbed, and, save towards the one being for whom it would sacrifice all the world, utterly selfish. and what i was slowly beginning to feel was love.

we moved away into the misty night. mr. harrod did not speak for some time. he was busy enough trying to find out which was the right way. we had no clew. the sound of the sea, it is true, had grown faint in our ears, so that we were farther inland; but, excepting for the dike which i had crossed after my meeting with the tramps, we had no landmark to tell us where we were.

harrod thought he remembered the dike; but how far it was from the high-road that we wished to reach, we could neither of us exactly determine. the tract of country was a little beyond our usual beat, or we should have been less at a loss. but there was no sign or sound yet of the market-town through or by which we must pass before we reached our own piece of marsh-land.

there was no doubt about it that we were lost on the marsh, and all that we could do was to jolt slowly along, avoiding dikes and unseen pitfalls, and waiting quietly for the day to show us our whereabouts. luckily, in these midsummer nights the hours betwixt dusk and dawn are but short. only harrod seemed to be concerned about it; he kept asking me whether i was warm; he kept begging me not to give up and go to sleep. i suppose he was afraid of the fever for me. but for my own part i felt no inconvenience; i was not cold, and i had no more inclination to go to sleep.

i do not remember that we talked of anything in particular; i do not remember that we talked much at all. i think i was afraid to speak; i think i was afraid that even he should speak; the silence was too wonderful, and the vague sense of something unspoken, unguessed, was sweeter than any words. it was the deepest silence i have ever felt; there wasn't so much as the sound of a bird, or of a stirring leaf, or of the breath of the sleeping cattle; even the gentle moaning of the sea was hushed now in the distance; it was as though we two were alone in the world.

sometimes i could see that smile of mr. harrod's flash out even in the darkness as he would turn and ask if i was quite warm, and sometimes he would merely bend over me and wrap the rug—tenderly, i fancied—more closely around me. ah, it was a midsummer-night's dream! but at last nature was stronger than inclination—i was young and healthy—and i dropped asleep. when i awoke, a promise of coming light was in the east, the sea was tremulous with it, and long purple streaks lined the horizon. overhead the sky was fair, although the thick, white fog still lay in one vast sheet all around us. out of it rose the market-town straight before us, dark and sombre, out of the shining sea of mist.

we were trotting now along the beaten track towards it, and mr. harrod was urging on the weary mare with one hand, while the other was round my waist. the gig was narrow for two persons, and i suppose i should have risked being thrown out in my unconscious state if he had not done so. he took away his arm as soon as i stirred, and i shook myself and looked at him. had my head been resting on his shoulder? and if it had, why was i so little disturbed?

"i am afraid i have been asleep," said i.

"yes," answered mr. harrod, "you have been asleep. i hadn't the heart to rouse you again, you were so tired. but we shall soon be at home now."

"why, we've got back into the track!" i exclaimed.

"yes," laughed he. "when the town began to appear through the mist it was a landmark to me, though i believe i tumbled over the path at last by a mere chance."

he said no more. we were soon out into the high-road again, and climbing the street of the town. we were the only stirring people in it, and this made me feel more conscious of my strange adventure than all the hours that i had spent alone on the marsh with my companion.

for the first time i began to wonder what mother would say. once out of the town, we sped silently along the straight, familiar road that led towards our own village. the mist was beginning slowly, very slowly, to clear away, and the hills upon which our farm stood loomed out of it in the distance. in the marsh, on either side of us, the cattle began to stir like their own ghosts in the white vapor, and gazed at us across the dikes with wondering, sleepy eyes.

the stars were all dead, and above the mist the quiet sky spread a panoply of steely blue, while out above the sea the purple streaks had turned to silver and sent rays upward into the great dome. hung like a curtain across the gates of some wonderful world unseen, a rosy radiance spread from the bosom of the ocean far into the downy clouds above that so tenderly covered the naked blue—a radiance that every moment was more and more marvellously illumined by that mysterious inward fire, whose even distant being could tip every hill and mountain of cloudland with a lining of molten gold. unconsciously my gaze clung to the spot where a warmth so far-reaching sprung from so dainty a border-land of opal coloring; and when at last the great flame was born of the sea's gray breast, i felt the tears come into my eyes, i don't know why, and a little sigh of content rose from my heart. i was tired, for the sunrise had never brought tears to my eyes before.

"i hope you'll be none the worse," said harrod, glancing at me uneasily, and urging the horse with voice and hand; "but i'm afraid your parents will have been sadly anxious anyhow."

alas! i had not thought of it again. i sat silent, watching where the familiar solid curves of the fortress upon the marsh began to take shape out of the fog.

"if i hadn't met you i should have been out on yonder marsh now," i said.

i thought he would have said something about being glad he had met me, but he did not. he only answered, "i ought not to have allowed you to fall asleep."

i laughed at that. "if it had not been for you i should be asleep now on that bank where i first heard you," i declared. "and i should have got my death of ague by this time, i suppose."

still he said nothing. there was some misgiving on his mind which no words of mine removed. i felt it instinctively. even when i said—and as i write it down now i marvel how i could have said it—even when i said, softly, "well, i regret nothing. i have enjoyed myself," he did not reply.

i wondered at it just for a moment, but no mood of his could damp my complete content. even though, as i neared home, i began to be more and more uneasy about my parents' anxiety, no cloud could rest on the horizon of this fair, sweet dawn of day. i could not see beyond the barrier of that ever-widening, ever-brightening curtain of glorious light; but there it was, making glad for the coming of the blessed sun that would soon fill the whole space of heaven's free and perfect purity.

the coldness of the sky and of all the world was slowly throbbing with the wakening warmth. what was there beyond that burning edge of the world, beyond that sea of strange, exultant brightness?

we began to climb the hill, and on the garden terrace stood my father. he was waiting for me just as he had waited for me on that night in may when he had told me to be friends with trayton harrod.