the
circumstances he saw coming along the road through the increasing mist
a figure which, indistinct as it was, he knew well. It was Grace
Melbury, on her way out from the house, probably for a short evening
walk before dark. He arranged himself for a greeting from her, since
she could hardly avoid passing immediately beneath the tree.

But Grace, though she looked up and saw him, was just at that time too
full of the words of her father to give him any encouragement. The
years-long regard that she had had for him was not kindled by her
return into a flame of sufficient brilliancy to make her rebellious.
Thinking that she might not see him, he cried, "Miss Melbury, here I
am."

She looked up again. She was near enough to see the expression of his
face, and the nails in his soles, silver-bright with constant walking.
But she did not reply; and dropping her glance again, went on.

Winterborne's face grew strange; he mused, and proceeded automatically
with his work. Grace meanwhile had not gone far. She had reached a
gate, whereon she had leaned sadly, and whispered to herself, "What
shall I do?"

A sudden fog came on, and she curtailed her walk, passing under the
tree again on her return. Again he addressed her. "Grace," he said,
when she was close to the trunk, "speak to me." She shook her head
without stopping, and went on to a little distance, where she stood
observing him from behind the hedge.

Her coldness had been kindly meant. If it was to be done, she had said
to herself, it should be begun at once. While she stood out of
observation Giles seemed to recognize her meaning; with a sudden start
he worked on, climbing higher, and cutting himself off more and more
from all intercourse with the sublunary world. At last he had worked
himself so high up the elm, and the mist had so thickened, that he
could only just be discerned as a dark-gray spot on the light-gray sky:
he would have been altogether out of notice but for the stroke of his
billhook and the flight of a bough downward, and its crash upon the
hedge at intervals.

It was not to be done thus, after all: plainness and candor were best.
She went back a third time; he did not see her now, and she lingeringly
gazed up at his unconscious figure, loath to put an end to any kind of
hope that might live on in him still. "Giles-- Mr. Winterborne," she
said.

He was so high amid the fog that he did not hear. "Mr. Winterborne!"
she cried again, and