ly from point to point till it landed on the shingle three hundred
feet below.

He stood there in the dim light, cursing volubly in patois and shaking
his fist at Gard; but at last, to Gard's great relief, he humped his
back and stumbled away up the cutting on the further side.

And Gard, very sick of it all, and with an aching head and a very tender
nose, but withal with a warm glow at the heart which no aches or pains
could damp down, turned and went home to bed.

CHAPTER XVI

HOW ONE FELL OVER

Gard's first waking thoughts next morning were of Nance entirely.

He would see her at dinner-time. How would he find her? Last night the
disturbance of her feelings had shaken her out of herself somewhat, and
shown her to him in new and delightful lights.

If, this morning, she should be to some extent withdrawn again into her
natural modest shell, he would not be surprised; and he made up his
mind, then and there, to be in no wise disappointed. Last night was a
fact, a delightful fact, on which to build the rosy future.

It was a long time to wait till dinner-time to see her. What if he went
round that way, before going to work, just to inquire if Tom got home
all right.

And then the feeling of discomfort in his eye and nose, as though the
one had shrunk to the size of a pin-point and the other had grown to the
bulk of a turnip--brought back the whole matter, and on further
consideration he decided not to go to the farm till the proper time. If
he came across Tom, the fray would inevitably be resumed at once, and
his right eye, at the moment, showed a decided disinclination to open to
its usual extent, or to perform any of the functions properly demanded
of a right eye contemplating battle.

He must get up at once and bathe it and bring it to reason.

Raw beef, he believed, was the correct treatment under the
circumstances. But raw beef was almost as obtainable as raw moon, and
even raw mutton he did not know where he could procure, nor whether it
would answer the purpose.

So he bathed his bruises with much water, and reduced their excesses to
some extent, but not enough to escape the eye of his hostess when he
appeared at breakfast.

"Bin fighting?" she queried dispassionately.

"A one-sided fight. Tom Hamon was drunk last night and hit me in the
face, but he was not in a condition to fight or I'd have taught him
better manners."

"He's a rough piece," with a disparaging shake of the head. "It'd