the next morning the sun shone, and the world was as gay as ever. father declared himself well and hearty; complained of no pain and betrayed no weakness, was merry at the breakfast-table over a letter of frank forrester's, and withdrew with it as usual to his study, where he spent more and more time opposite the portrait of camille lambert, and left farm matters more and more to his bailiff.

for me the sun shone the more brightly because of a short, delightful ten minutes with trayton harrod, in which we said nothing in particular, but that chased away the tiny shadow of disappointment that had crossed the horizon of my sweet, dawning experience, and banished it—disgraced and ashamed—into oblivion.

it was a very short ten minutes. miss farnham and the vicar's wife had been to call, and the hoad girls had come to ask us to go to a ball at the town-hall. "oh, do come," they had said, "and bring the bailiff;" and my dignity had flamed into my cheek, and i had been grateful to mother for promptly refusing for us, and even to old miss farnham for declaring that we were more sensible than most girls, and weren't always on the watch for new occasions to pinch in our waists. miss farnham, i recollect, had declared afterwards that it was only a dodge to catch father.

it was after the guests had left, and while we were waiting for mother to get her bonnet on for a drive, that harrod and i got those short ten minutes to ourselves.

joyce had gone to guestling to lunch with some friends, and mother had proposed to harrod to drive us over to fetch her, so that at the same time she might look at a cow which he had found for her there for sale.

we set forth, harrod driving mother in the cart with the steady old black horse, and i riding marigold alongside.

i saw as soon as we set out that he was just a little shade out of spirits. it troubled me at first, but i soon guessed, or thought i guessed, what it was about.

"wasn't that mr. hoad i saw up atop of the hill with you and laban?" asked mother, just after we had set out.

harrod nodded.

"what does the man want meddling with farming?" asked mother. "i shouldn't have thought he was a wiseacre on such-like."

harrod shrugged his shoulders; he evidently didn't intend to commit himself.

"mr. hoad wouldn't wait to hear if other folk thought him a wiseacre before he'd think he had a right to interfere," laughed i. "those smart daughters of his came inviting joyce and me to a ball just now."

"you're not going?" asked harrod, quickly.

"no, no," answered mother. "i don't hold with that kind of amusement for young folk. there's too many strangers."

"why don't you want us to go?" asked i, softly.

he didn't reply; he whipped up the horse a little instead.

"miss farnham declared our going would have been made use of to try and draw father into the election against his will," said i. "but she's always got some queer notion in her head."

"well, upon my word, i don't believe there's much these electioneering chaps would stick at," declared harrod, contemptuously. "i declare i believe they'd step into a man's house and get his own chairs and tables to go against him if they could."

mother laughed, but harrod did not laugh.

"and if they can't have their way, there's nothing they wouldn't do to spite a fellow," added he.

"why, what has mr. hoad been doing to spite you?" asked mother.

"nothing, ma'am, nothing at all," declared the bailiff. "there's nothing he could do to spite me, for i don't set enough store by him; and i should doubt if there's any would be led far by the words of a man that shows himself such a time-server."

he spoke so bitterly that i looked at him in sheer astonishment.

"i thought mr. hoad seemed to have taken quite a fancy to you last night," said mother.

harrod laughed harshly.

"yes," he said; and then he added, abruptly, "there's some folk's seemings that aren't to be trusted. they depend upon what they can get."

"good gracious!" said mother. "whatever could mr. hoad want to get of you?"

"excuse me, ma'am, i don't know that he wanted to get anything," declared harrod, evidently feeling that he had gone too far. "i know no ill of the man. i don't like him—that's all."

mother was silent, but i said, boldly, "no more do i."

and there talk on the subject ended. it was not until many a long day afterwards that i knew that hoad—moved, i suppose, by harrod's argument against father on the previous evening—had tried to persuade him to help in some sort against his employer in the coming political struggle. he little knew the man with whom he had to deal, and that no depreciatory remarks which spite might induce him to make to father upon his farming capacities would have any influence upon father's bailiff. only i was glad i had agreed with him in not liking mr. hoad. it got me a reproving look from mother, but it got me a little smile from him, which in the state of my feelings added one little grain more to the growing sum of my unconfessed happiness.

it was a long way to guestling. away past "the elms" and its hop-gardens, and many other hop-gardens again, where the bines were growing tall and rich with their pale green clusters; away between blackberry and bryony hedges that the stately foxglove adorned, between banks white with hemlock; away onto the breast of the breezy downs, where the hills were blue for a border, and solitary clumps of pines grew unexpectedly by the road-side.

the west became a sea of flame beyond the vastness of that swelling bosom, just as it had been almost every evening through that glorious summer, and set a line of blood-red upon the horizon for miles around, firing clots of cloud that floated upon lakes of tender green, and hemming other masses with rims of gold that were as the edges of burning linings to their softness.

mother was almost afraid of it. she declared that she had never seen a sunset that swallowed up half the heavens like that, and she wondered what it boded; for even after we had turned and left the west behind us the clouds that sailed the blue were red with it still.

when we got near to guestling we were overtaken by squire broderick on his roan cob. i think he had intended to ride farther but he seemed so delighted to find mother out-of-doors that he could not detach himself from our party.

"why, mrs. maliphant," i remember his saying with that half-respectful, half-affectionate air of familiarity that he always used to our mother, "if you knew how becoming that white bonnet is you would put it on oftener. it's quite a treat to see you out driving."

mother declared that only business had brought her out now; and i remember how the squire told her she would never find a new friend to take the place of an old one, not if harrod were to find her a cow with twice the good points of poor old betsey. and while mr. broderick was paying sweet compliments to mother, harrod and i exchanged a few more of those commonplace words, the memory of which made me merry, even when presently i was obliged to drop behind and ride alongside of the squire.

i had something to say to him, and as it related to the bailiff, i was not unwilling to drop behind. the night before he had made light of those schemes and improvements on the farm of which i was beginning to be so proud, and i had not thought it fair of him to try and set his own prot�g� in a poor light before father. i meant to tell him so, and this was the opportunity.

"mr. broderick," said i, driving boldly into my subject, "why did you talk last night as if things were going badly on the farm? you told me a while ago that all the farm wanted was a younger head and heart upon it—somebody more ambitious to work for it. yet now one would almost fancy you mistrusted the very man you recommended, and wanted to make father mistrust him."

i saw the squire start and look at me—look at me in a sharp, inquiring sort of way.

"i did not intend to give that impression," he said.

"well, then, you did," said i, wisely shaking my head. "any one could have seen it. you were quite cool about the water scheme. why, father took his part against you."

"i think you exaggerate, miss margaret," murmured he.

"oh no, i don't," i insisted. "and if i am rude, i beg your pardon; but i think it a pity you should undo all the work i have been doing. besides," added i, in a lower voice, "it's not fair. you said you were 'afraid' he was spending too much money, and you 'hoped' he would make a fortune over the hops. it didn't sound as if you believed it would be so."

"well, so i do hope a fortune will be made," smiled he.

"ah, but you said it as if it might have been quite the contrary," insisted i.

"did i?" repeated he, humbly.

"yes," declared i. "if you don't think mr. harrod manages well, you should tell him so; you are his friend."

the squire was silent, moodily silent.

"ah, who can tell what is good management in hops?" sighed he at last. "the most gambling thing that a man can touch. all chance. twelve hours' storm, a few scalding hot days, and a few night-mists at the wrong moment, may ruin the most brilliant hopes of weeks. i have seen fortunes lost over hops. a field that will bring forth hundreds one year will scarcely pay for the picking the next. no man ought to touch hops who has not plenty of money at his back."

"do you think father knows that hops are such a tremendous risk?" i asked.

"oh, of course he must know it," answered the squire.

and there he stopped short. i did not choose to ask any more. it seemed like mistrusting father to ask questions about his affairs. but i wondered whether he was a man who had "plenty of money at his back."

"i think harrod is a safe fellow, and a clever fellow," added the squire. "a cool-headed, hard-headed sort of chap, who ought not to be over-sanguine though he is young."

the words were not enthusiastic, they were said rather as a duty—they offended me.

"oh, i am sure you would not have recommended him to father unless you had had a high opinion of him," said i, haughtily. "and i am glad to say that father has a high opinion of him himself, and always follows his advice. i do not suppose that anything that any one said would prejudice father against mr. harrod now. in fact we all have the highest opinion of him."

with that i touched marigold with the whip and sent her capering forward to the cart. mother started, and reproved me sharply; but at that moment we drew up at the farm gates, and she turned round to beg the squire would spare her a few minutes to give his opinion also upon the contemplated purchase. harrod looked round, and i was angry, for she had no right to have done it. i do not know how the squire could have consented, but he did so, though half unwillingly, and demurring to harrod's first right.

"the squire is such a very old friend of ours," i murmured, half apologetically, to the bailiff on the first opportunity. "mother has so often asked his advice."

"yes, yes, i quite understand," replied he. and then he added—i almost wondered why—"i suppose you remember him ever since you were a child?"

"oh yes," laughed i; "he used to play with us when we were little girls and he was a young man."

"a young man!" smiled harrod. "what is he now?"

"i should think he must be nearly thirty-five," said i, gravely. "and you know he's a widower."

"indeed! well, he's not too old to marry again," smiled trayton harrod, looking at me.

"that's what mother says," answered i. and then i added—and heaven knows what induced me to do it, for i had no right to speak of it—"some folk think he's sweet on my sister."

it was unlike me to babble of family secrets. i glanced at my companion. there was a little scowl upon his brow; it was usually there when he was thinking, and he was ruffled still with vexation at mother's unusual want of tact. he looked after her where she was talking with the squire.

"oh, is it to be a match?" he asked, carelessly.

"oh, dear no," laughed i. "joyce—"

i was going to say, "joyce cares for some one else," but luckily i remembered that solemn promise to mother just in time.

"joyce doesn't even think he likes her," i added instead.

he turned to me and broke into a little laugh. i thought it almost rude of him, and wondered whether he, too, thought that a farmer's daughter was not worthy of marriage with a squire.

but he was looking at me—he was looking at me with a strange look in his eyes. yes, there was no mistaking it—it was a look of admiration, a look of almost tender admiration, and as i felt it upon me a blush rose to my cheek that so rarely blushed, and the power of thinking went from me; i only felt his presence.

i don't know how long we stood thus; i suppose it was only seconds before he said, "i believe you would put that sister of yours before you in everything, miss margaret."

i made an effort to understand him, for i think i was in a dream.

"yes, she's so beautiful!" i murmured.

"beautiful!" echoed he.

there was something in the tone of his voice that made me lift my eyes to his face. his gaze was fixed on the gate of the farm-yard. i followed his gaze. joyce had entered and was coming towards us. this was where we had arranged to meet.

she shook hands with harrod and then with the squire, who joined us with mother. we all went together into the cow-shed.

i don't remember what remarks were made upon betsey's proposed successor; i don't even remember if we bought her or not. i don't think i was in the mood to attend much to the matter. i was roused from a brown-study by a curious remark of trayton harrod's.

mother had found occasion to ask him whether the woman whom she had provided for him at "the elms" made him comfortable, and was pleasant-spoken. it had been on her mind, i know, ever since he had been there.

"she does her work," answered the bailiff. "i don't know if she's pleasant-spoken. i never speak to her."

"that's not the way to get the best out of a woman," laughed the squire. "we poor bachelors need something more than bare duty out of our servants." he said it merrily, and yet i did not think he was merry.

"i want no more than duty," repeated harrod. "talking, unless you have something to say, is waste of time."

"you'll have to mend your manners, my lad, if ever you hope to persuade any young lady to become your wife," laughed the squire again.

"i never should hope to do any such thing," answered harrod. "i shouldn't be such a fool." and with that he walked away out of the farm-yard and began untying the cart for the homeward journey.

mother looked after him, puzzled for a moment. then, nodding her head at the squire, she said, softly: "ah, that's what all you young men say till you've fixed on the girl you want. you're none so backward then."

i fancied the squire looked a little uncomfortable, but he said, lightly: "do you think not, mrs. maliphant? well, nothing venture, nothing have, they say. harrod has had his fingers burned, i suppose. a bit sore on the subject, but he'll get over it. he's a nice lad; though, to take his word for it, his wife wouldn't have a very cheerful life of it!"

"well, we needn't take his word for it," said mother. "and, good gracious me! it's fools indeed that would want to wed upon nothing but sugar. there'd be no grit in love at all if we hadn't some duties towards one another that weren't all pleasant. 'tis in the doing of them that love grows stronger. i've always thought you can't smell the best of roses till you get near enough to feel the thorns."

this speech of mother's comes back to me vividly now, but at the time i was scarcely conscious of it.

trayton harrod's words—"i shouldn't be such a fool"—were ringing in my ears. what did he mean by them? i looked round after him and saw that my sister had strolled across to where he was waiting by the cart. it was natural enough—it was time to be getting homeward. but as i looked i saw him bend towards her just a little and say something. the expression of his face had softened again, and the scowl on his sunburnt brow had faded, but his lips were pressed together so that they were quite thin instead of full, as they appeared in their normal shape; and i wondered why he looked so, and why what he said made the blush, that was now so much rarer than it used to be, creep up joyce's cheek till it overspread her fair brow and tipped her delicate little ears with red.

an uncontrollable, unreasonable fit of anger took possession of me. i flew across the yard to that corner where marigold was tied beside the dog-cart.

"i suppose you read a great deal of evenings?" joyce was saying.

and harrod answered, shortly, "no, i don't so much as i used to do. i am too much taken up with other things."

simple words enough, but they set my heart aflame, yet left me sick and sore.

i undid the mare with a rough hand, and, before she had time to see what i was about, i set my foot in the stirrup and sprang into the saddle. she was used to my doing that, but she was not used to my doing it in that way.

she reared and kicked. my thoughts were elsewhere, and it served me right that, for the first time in my life, she threw me.

i heard a scream from mother, and the next moment i felt that a man's arm had helped me up from the ground.

i was not hurt, only a little stunned, and when i saw that it was trayton harrod who had picked me up, i broke away from him and staggered forward to mother.

"i'm not hurt, mother, not a bit," said i, and then i burst into tears. oh, how ashamed i was! i who prided myself on self-control.

but she put her arm round me and laid my head on her shoulder, and her rare tenderness soothed me as nothing else in the world could have done. i kept my face hid on her neck, as i had done when i was a little child, and used to be quite confident that she could cure every wound.

yet it was only for a moment.

"i had better ride, and lead the mare," i heard the squire say in a low, concerned voice. "she won't be fit to mount again, or even to drive the cart."

i lifted my head.

"oh, indeed, squire broderick, i'm not in the least hurt," said i, as cheerfully as i could, for i was grateful for those kindly tones. "i can ride marigold home perfectly well."

"no, my dear, that you won't," said mother, all her decision returning now that her alarm was over. "i've had quite enough of this fright for one day."

joyce returned from the farm with a glass of water, and harrod by her side with some brandy that he had begged at the doctor's house hard by. i drank the water but i refused the brandy, and scoffed at the notion of the doctor coming out in person. then i got into the cart. i insisted on driving, and as the horse was the quiet old black dobbin, mother consented. joyce sat behind, and harrod rode after upon marigold.

the squire showed signs of joining our caravan at first; but as i turned round and assured him once more that i was perfectly well, and begged him to continue his road, he was almost obliged to turn his horse back again in the direction in which he had been going when he overtook us. but he still looked so very much concerned that i was forced to laugh at him. i think it was the only time i laughed that day.

the drive home was soothing enough across those miles of serene pasture-land whose marge the sea was always kissing, and where the sheep cropped, in sleepy passiveness, beneath faint rosy clouds that lay motionless upon the soft blue; the vast dreamy pastures, browning with autumn tints of many planes of autumn grasses that changed as they swayed in the lazy breeze, were hemmed by a winding strip of beach, pink or blue, according as the sun was behind or above one, and to-night bordered beyond it by a stretch of golden sand, over which rows upon rows of little waves rippled with the incoming tide. we drove along the margin of the beach; the yellow sea-poppies bloomed amid their pale, blue-green leaves upon every mound of shingle, and not even the distant church-spires and masts of ships, that told of man's presence, could disturb the breathless placidity that no memory of storm or strife seemed to awaken into a throb of life.

but suddenly upon the vast line of wide horizon, where the sea melted into the sky with a little hovering streak of haze, a throb of light stirred; at first it was but a spot of gold upon the bosom of the distance, but it was a spot that grew larger, though with a soft and rayless radiance unlike the dazzle of the sun-setting; then out of the breast of it was made a red ball that sent a path of gilded crimson down the sea, and tipped the crest of every little wave that crept towards us with a crown of opalescent light; it was the sun's last kiss welcoming the moon as she rose out of the sea.

it was a rare and a beautiful sight, and to me, who loved the world in which i lived so well, it should have brought joyousness. and yet it did not please me. i would rather have had it chill and stormy, with a thick fog creeping up out of the sea—a fog such as that through which trayton harrod's tall figure had loomed the first time that i had met him, just on this very tract of land.