"Yes, I know that also," I said.

"How did you--but never mind. I did not see him, and when I returned home
I felt angry and hurt and--and--but never mind that either. One day I
found him, and I at once rode to the well where he was standing by his
horse. He drew water for Dolcy, but the perverse mare would not drink."

"A characteristic of her sex," I muttered.

"What did you say?" asked the girl.

"Nothing."

She continued: "He seemed constrained and distant in his manner, but I
knew, that is, I thought--I mean I felt--oh, you know--he looked as if he
were glad to see me and I--I, oh, God! I was so glad and happy to see him
that I could hardly restrain myself to act at all maidenly. He must have
heard my heart beat. I thought he was in trouble. He seemed to have
something he wished to say to me."

"He doubtless had a great deal he wished to say to you," said I, again
tempted to futile irony.

"I was sure he had something to say," the girl returned seriously. "He was
in trouble. I knew that he was, and I longed to help him."

"What trouble?" I inquired.

"Oh, I don't know. I forgot to ask, but he looked troubled."

"Doubtless he was troubled," I responded. "He had sufficient cause for
trouble," I finished the sentence to myself with the words, "in you."

"What was the cause of his trouble?" she hastily asked, turning her face
toward me.

"I do not know certainly," I answered in a tone of irony which should have
pierced an oak board, while the girl listened and looked at me eagerly;
"but I might guess."

"What was it? What was it? Let me hear you guess," she asked.

"You," I responded laconically.

"I!" she exclaimed in surprise.

"Yes, you," I responded with emphasis. "You would bring trouble to any
man, but to Sir John Manners--well, if he intends to keep up these
meetings with you it would be better for his peace and happiness that he
should get him a house in hell, for he would live there more happily than
on this earth."

"That is a foolish, senseless remark, Malcolm," the girl replied, tossing
her head with a show of anger in her eyes. "This is no time to jest." I
suppose I could not have convinced her that I was not jesting.

"At first we did not speak to each other even to say good day, but stood
by the well in silence for a very long time. The village people were
staring at us, and I felt that every window had a hundred faces in it, and
every face a hundred eyes."

"You imagined that