rred to the Bishop, Paul spoke of the rector.

Then he hurried on his way, anxious not to encounter Sally or May. The
brief interval of sunshine was over, and wreaths of mist gathered along
the banks of the river, creeping gradually to the slopes above it,
dissolving into fine thick rain as the afternoon darkened into night.
And still Paul lingered about his business at the farm, until he felt
assured that all danger of coming across May was over: a conviction
justified by the fact that he met the carriage from the Court, driving
home as he returned to the village, catching a glimpse of a lady's
figure inside it.

"How long has May been gone?" he asked, with studied carelessness, as
he let himself into he cottage and saw a girl's figure seated on the
rug before the fire.

"She's not gone! she's here, wondering why her host was so rude as to
absent himself this afternoon. Since when, by the way, have you done
her the honour to call her by her Christian name?" And May Webster
rose from her lowly position and faced Paul with laughter in her eyes.

Paul felt himself caught at a thorough disadvantage; he was dripping
with rain and covered with mud, and, confronted thus suddenly with the
girl of whom his heart was full, his usual readiness of speech deserted
him.

"You! you!" he stammered. "But I saw you drive by me not a quarter of
an hour ago."

"And thought you had timed your homecoming so as judiciously to miss
me," said May, mercilessly. "It must have been my mother; she has been
spending the day at Fairfield. I told Dixon not to come back for me as
I would walk home: a premature decision, for it has rained ever since,
and I've been waiting for it to clear up. However, I can wait no
longer; and Sally has just gone to forage out a waterproof and
umbrella."

"I'll go up to the Court and tell them to send back the carriage," said
Paul, preparing to depart.

"No, thank you; I will walk."

"The village fly, then?"

"It, or rather its horse, has had more than its proper work to-day. It
is probably now conveying the Bishop to the station."

"I shall come with you, then; it will be quite dark before you get
home."

"I'm not afraid of it. I believe you are; there's a queer, scared look
about you, as if you had seen a ghost; you still think I was in that
carriage. Sally," turning to the girl who had just re-entered the
room, "will you tell your brother that I don't wish him to see me home?
He's very damp