rd. Tom
looked at her inquiringly as if he was not quite sure, but there was
something in her face which forbade further investigation.

"You've lost your shoes; you cannot walk home; will you let me give you a
lift to Chapel Farm?"

"They do not matter a straw: it is grass nearly the whole way."

"I'll fish them out, if you will show me where they are."

"Carried down by this time ever so far."

"But you will hurt your feet; it isn't all grass; you had better get in."

She thought suddenly of the bargee again, and reflected that the barge
might still be moored where it was an hour ago.

"Very well, then, I will go."

She essayed to put her foot upon the step, but the mud on her stocking
was greasy, and she fell backwards. Tom caught her in his arms, and a
strange thrill passed through him when he felt that the whole weight of
her body rested on him. Many a man there is who can call to mind, across
forty years, a silly passage like this in his life. His hair has
whitened; all passion ought long ago to have died out of him; thousands
of events of infinitely greater consequence have happened; he has read
much in philosophy and religion, and has forgotten it all, and a slip on
the ice when skating together, or a stumble on the stair, or the pressure
of a hand prolonged just for a second in parting, is felt with its
original intensity, and the thought of it drives warm blood once more
through the arteries.

"Let me get in first," said Tom, putting some straw on the step.

He got into the cart, and he gently pulled her up, relinquishing her very
carefully, and, in fact, not until after his assistance was no longer
needed.

"How _did_ you manage it?"

"You know how these things happen: it was all-over in a minute: how are
father and mother?"

"They are very well."

There was a pause for a minute or two.

"Well, how are things going on at Eastthorpe?"

"Oh, pretty well; the building is three parts done. I don't think, Miss
Catharine, you'll ever go back to the old spot again."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think your father and mother will leave the Terrace."

"Very likely," she replied, decisively. "It will be better, perhaps,
that they should not. I am sure that whatever they do will be quite
right."

"Of course, Miss Catharine, but _I_ shall be sorry. I wish my bedroom
could have been built up again between the old walls. In that bedroom
you saved my life."

"Rubbish! Even suppose _I_