place years ago--Squire Everard's
son did--and went away. I've never heard where they went to. They came
quite to nothing.'

'Never heard anything of the young lady--the Squire's daughter?'

'No. You see 'twas before I came to these parts.'

When the waitress left the room, Nicholas pushed aside his plate and
gazed out of the window. He was not going over into the Froom Valley
altogether on Christine's account, but she had greatly animated his
motive in coming that way. Anyhow he would push on there now that he was
so near, and not ask questions here where he was liable to be wrongly
informed. The fundamental inquiry he had not ventured to make--whether
Christine had married before the family went away. He had abstained
because of an absurd dread of extinguishing hopeful surmise. That the
Everards had left their old home was bad enough intelligence for one day.

Rising from the table he put on his hat and went out, ascending towards
the upland which divided this district from his native vale. The first
familiar feature that met his eye was a little spot on the distant sky--a
clump of trees standing on a barrow which surmounted a yet more remote
upland--a point where, in his childhood, he had believed people could
stand and see America. He reached the further verge of the plateau on
which he had entered. Ah, there was the valley--a greenish-grey stretch
of colour--still looking placid and serene, as though it had not much
missed him. If Christine was no longer there, why should he pause over
it this evening? His uncle and aunt were dead, and to-morrow would be
soon enough to inquire for remoter relatives. Thus, disinclined to go
further, he turned to retrace his way to the inn.

In the backward path he now perceived the figure of a woman, who had been
walking at a distance behind him; and as she drew nearer he began to be
startled. Surely, despite the variations introduced into that figure by
changing years, its ground-lines were those of Christine?

Nicholas had been sentimental enough to write to Christine immediately on
landing at Southampton a day or two before this, addressing his letter at
a venture to the old house, and merely telling her that he planned to
reach the Roy-Town inn on the present afternoon. The news of the
scattering of the Everards had dissipated his hope of hearing of her; but
here she was.

So they met--there, alone, on the open down by a pond, just as if the
meeting had be