Far away among the fields she saw some one walking by the river bank. Carrie was irresolute no longer. She did not stay to put on her hat and her gloves, nor stop to consider that she had not yet visited her aunt’s sick-room—no, she did none of these things, but ran off down the avenue, and, pushing through the hedge, walked with more sedateness across the fields. In the distance, now, she could hear a long clear whistle like a bird’s note. It came nearer and nearer, then Phil came up through the long, reedy, flowering grasses by the riverside, with both hands held out to her; his shining eyes seemed to speak for him. ‘I thought you were never coming, Carrie,’ he said, and took her hands in his. Hitherto their relations had been strictly unsentimental, now they had suddenly become lovers; without a word of explanation they both acknowledged it. ‘Come and sit down, Carrie, I have all the world to say to you,’ said Phil, and he flung his arm round her as he spoke. To Carrie it seemed the most natural thing that Phil should be in love with her—she had known it indeed for ten days past—she was not the least surprised at it, but what did surprise her now was to find that she too was in love, and that it was so natural—she seemed to have loved Phil always. It was no astonishing thing to her that she should sit here with Phil’s arm round her, and hear him say all manner of things that only yesterday he would never have dreamed of saying. What did astonish her was that he had not said all this long ago! Why not yesterday? why not when they first met? Had they ever been strangers? Had they not understood each other always? It was ridiculous this sudden assumption of loverishness on Phil’s part; they had been lovers from long long ago! And from these happy thoughts Carrie was rudely wakened by what Phil was saying. His voice was urgent, his looks were anxious; he was actually telling her a story, in rather incoherent words, about both their parents, and a woman and a fight, and she did not take it all in. ‘But what has all this to do with you and with me, Phil?’ she asked, raising her face to his. Phil turned and shook her ever so lightly. ‘Oh, you dear dull darling that you are,’ he cried; ‘do you not see they will separate us?—take you away from me, Carrie—never allow you to see me again?’ ‘But I could not live without you,’ said simple Carrie, unaware that the formula had been used before; it seemed quite an original argument to her. ‘Nor I without you, of course,’ cried Phil—quite as unoriginal, in spite of his quick wits (the poor and the rich in wits as in wealth meet together in some things), ‘and for that reason you won’t refuse me what I ask, Carrie—’tis the only plan—I’ve thought all the matter out, and unless you will do it, your father will be here to-night, and will carry you off to London, and you will never see my face again, as like as not.’ ‘Well?’ asked Carrie dubiously.