rees, by a path where there were no oaks,
and no barking, and no Fitzpiers--nothing but copse-wood, between
which the primroses could be discerned in pale bunches. "I didn't know
Mr. Winterborne was there," said Marty, breaking the silence when they
had nearly reached Grace's door.

"Nor was he," said Grace.

"But, Miss Melbury, I saw him."

"No," said Grace. "It was somebody else. Giles Winterborne is nothing
to me."

CHAPTER XX.

The leaves over Hintock grew denser in their substance, and the
woodland seemed to change from an open filigree to a solid opaque body
of infinitely larger shape and importance. The boughs cast green
shades, which hurt the complexion of the girls who walked there; and a
fringe of them which overhung Mr. Melbury's garden dripped on his
seed-plots when it rained, pitting their surface all over as with
pock-marks, till Melbury declared that gardens in such a place were no
good at all. The two trees that had creaked all the winter left off
creaking, the whir of the night-jar, however, forming a very
satisfactory continuation of uncanny music from that quarter. Except
at mid-day the sun was not seen complete by the Hintock people, but
rather in the form of numerous little stars staring through the leaves.

Such an appearance it had on Midsummer Eve of this year, and as the
hour grew later, and nine o'clock drew on, the irradiation of the
daytime became broken up by weird shadows and ghostly nooks of
indistinctness. Imagination could trace upon the trunks and boughs
strange faces and figures shaped by the dying lights; the surfaces of
the holly-leaves would here and there shine like peeping eyes, while
such fragments of the sky as were visible between the trunks assumed
the aspect of sheeted forms and cloven tongues. This was before the
moonrise. Later on, when that planet was getting command of the upper
heaven, and consequently shining with an unbroken face into such open
glades as there were in the neighborhood of the hamlet, it became
apparent that the margin of the wood which approached the
timber-merchant's premises was not to be left to the customary
stillness of that reposeful time.

Fitzpiers having heard a voice or voices, was looking over his garden
gate--where he now looked more frequently than into his books--fancying
that Grace might be abroad with some friends. He was now irretrievably
committed in heart to Grace Melbury, though he was by no means sure
that sh