om of her heart
most tenderly. She had reproached herself, saying that her desire
for him had nothing to do with love--was no genuine impulse to
forgive, but a selfish cowardly longing to be saved, as only he could
save her. She was wrong. She desired to be saved: but she desired
far more wildly that he should play the man, justify her love and
earn forgiveness. She had--and was, alas! to prove it--an almost
infinite capacity to forgive. She, Hetty, of the reckless wit and
tongue--she would meet him humbly--as one whose sin had been as deep
as his . . .

Was it he? If so, she would beg his pardon for thoughts which had
accused him of cowardice. . . .

She could not wait for the truth. So much joy it would bring, or so
deep anguish. She walked away blindly towards the fields, not once
looking back.

"So there you're hiding!" cried John Lambert triumphantly, saluting
Nancy with a smacking kiss on either cheek, and in no way
disconcerted by Emilia's presence.

Nancy pushed him away, but half-heartedly.

"No, you mustn't!" she protested, and her face grew suddenly tragic.

"Oh, I forgot for the moment!" John Lambert tried to look doleful.
He was an energetic young land-surveyor, with tow-coloured hair and a
face incurably jolly.

"You have heard, then?" asked Emilia.

"Why, bless you, your father was around to see me at eight o'clock
yesterday morning, or some such hour. He must have saddled at once.
He's a stickler, is the Rector. 'Young Mr. Lambert,' says he, very
formal, or some such words, 'I regret to say I must retract my
permission that you should marry into my family, as doubtless you
will wish to be released of your troth.' 'Hallo!' says I, a bit
surprised, but knowing his crotchets: 'Why, what have I been doing?'
'Nothing,' says he. 'Then what has _she_ been up to?'"--this with a
wink at Emilia--"'Nothing,' says he again, and pours out the whole
story, or so much of it as he knew and guessed, and winds up with
'I release you,' and a bow very formal and stiff. 'How about Miss
Nancy?' I asked; 'does she release me too?' 'I haven't asked her,'
he says, and goes on that he is not in the habit of being guided by
his daughters. To which I replied: 'Well, I am--by one of 'em,
anyhow--or hope to be. And, if you don't mind, I'll step round
to-morrow at the hour she expects me. I'd do it this moment if I
hadn't a job at Bawtry. And I'm sorry for you, Rector,' I said,
'but if you think it make