essing the water from his trousers,
and smoked while the light of the moon brightened into a silvery radiance
in which objects, trees, were greyly visible; reaches sank into soft
obscurity. He recognized his position from the ruined mill--he was on the
edge of that farm of Pompey Hollidew's of which Bartamon had spoken.
Hollidew, he knew, seldom visited his outlying acres, then only in the
collection of rents or profits--they lay too far from his iron chest, from
the communication of the Stenton banks. Gordon knew Sim Caley, and,
suddenly, he decided to visit him; the trout would afford the Caleys and
himself an ample repast.

He crossed the road, made his way through a fragrant tangle of field
grass, over shorn and orderly acres of grazing. The moon rose higher, grew
brighter; the vistas were clear, unreal, the shadows like spilled ink. The
house toward which he moved stood sharply defined, and enclosed by a
fence, flowers, from the farm. As he approached he saw that no lights
were visible, but a blur of white moved in the shadow of the portico. He
decided that it was Sim Caley's wife; and, opening the gate, advanced with
a query for Mrs. Caley's health forming on his lips.

But it was Lettice Hollidew.

XXIV

She retreated, as he advanced, within the deeper obscurity of an opened
door but he had seen, in the shimmering, elusive light, her features,
gathered the unmistakable, intangible impression of her person.

"It's me, Gordon Makimmon," he said. He paused by the step, on which he
laid the trout, shining with sudden, liquid gleams of silver in the
moonlight.

"Oh!" she exclaimed in a low voice; "oh!" She moved forward,
materializing, out of the dark, into a figure of white youth. Her face was
pale, there were white ruffles on her neck, on her arms, her skirt clung
simply, whitely, about her knees and ankles.

"I stopped to see Sim," he explained further, "and took you for Mrs.
Caley. I reckoned I'd bring them some trout: I didn't know your father was
here."

"Won't you sit down. Mrs. Caley is sick, and Sim's on the mountain with
the cattle. Father isn't here."

He mounted to the portico, mentally formulating a way of speedy escape; he
thought, everywhere he turned Lettice Hollidew stood with her tiresome
smile. "I come out here every summer," she volunteered, sinking upon a
step, "and spend two weeks. I was born here you see, and," she added in a
stiller voice, "my mother died here. Father Merlier