ch opened on the public road, and entered the
Mountain domain. The air was so still that the bubble of the boundary
brook was clearly audible a hundred yards away, with nothing to accent
it but the slow heavy flap of a late crow, winging his reluctant flight
homewards, and save for him, sky and earth alike seemed empty of life,
and delivered wholly to the clinging peace of evening. So that when Mrs.
Jenny came to the only clump of trees in her line of progress between
the gate and the house the little scream of surprise with which she
found herself suddenly face to face with an unexpected human figure was
justified.

'Sh-h-h! 'said the figure's owner. 'Don't you know me, Aunt Jenny?'

'Dick!' said Mrs. Jenny, peering at him. 'So it is. You welly frightened
the life out o' me. What brings you here, of all places in the world?'

'Can't you guess?' asked Dick. He was tall and broad-shouldered now,
an admirable fulfilment of the physical promise of his boyhood, and far
overtopped Mrs. Rusker. 'It isn't for the first time.'

'I feared not,' said the old woman. 'You was allays main venturesome.'

'It will be for the last, for some time, Aunt Jenny. I leave Castle
Barfield to-morrow.'

'Leave Barfield?' cried the old woman. 'Why, Dick, wheer are ye goin'?
You ain't agoin' to do nothin' rash, that I do hope.'

'I am going to London,' said Dick, 'and I must see Julia before I go.
You must help me. You are going to the house now, aren't you?'

'Going to London?' repeated Mrs. Eusker, who had no ears for the last
words after that announcement. 'What's made you so hot foot to go to
London all of a minute like?'

'It was decided to-day. My father suspects what is going on. I feel
sure of it, though he has never said a word about it. You know he always
meant to make a doctor of me--it was my own choice when I was quite a
little fellow, and it has always been understood. Last month he asked me
if I was of the same mind still, and to-day he told me that my seat is
taken in the coach from Birmingham. You know my father, Aunt Jenny, as
well as I do. He has been a very good father to me, and I would not give
him pain or trouble for the world. I could not refuse. Indeed, it is
my last chance of ever doing anything for myself and making a home for
Julia.'

'My dear, they'll never hear on it, nayther of 'em. Samson Mountain 'd
rather see his daughter in her coffin than married to any kin of Abel
Reddy's. Though he loves her, too,