‘Poor Larry!’ sighed Rosa; and if she could have known what was happening to poor Larry at that moment, she would have sighed still deeper. He had accepted her wager, and rushed off at her bidding to get the bunch of samphire that grew at the top of Corston Point. His brain was rather staggered at the idea of what he had undertaken, but he had been plentifully plied with Farmer Murray’s “Old October,” and it was a bright, moonlight night, so that he did not find the expedition after all so terrible as he had imagined. The salt marshes were very lonely, it is true, and more than once Larry turned his head fearfully over his shoulder, to find that nothing worse followed him than his own shadow; but he reached the Point in safety, and secured the samphire, without having encountered old Whisker’s ghost. Then his spirits rose again, and he whistled as he commenced to retrace his steps to the village. He knew he had been longer over the transaction than he had expected, and that he should be unable to see Miss Rosa that night; but he intended to be up at the farm the very first thing in the morning, and give the bunch of samphire into her own hands. He did not expect to receive the watch chain; he had not seen the ghost, and had not earned it; but Larry’s heart was all the lighter for that. He would not have exchanged a view of the dreaded spectre even for the coveted gold chain that had hung so long round the fair neck of his divinity. But as he turned Corston Point again, he started back to see a figure before him. The first moment he thought it must be old Whisker’s ghost, but the next convinced him of his error. It was only Mr Darley—Lord Worcester’s gamekeeper! He had been so absorbed in angry and remorseful thought since he left the apple copse that he had unwittingly taken the wrong turning, and now found himself upon the wide, desolate waste of the salt marshes, and rather uncertain on which side to find the beaten track again which led to the road to Rooklands. The two men were equally surprised and disgusted at encountering one another. ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Darley, insolently. ‘What business is that of yours?’ replied the other. ‘The salt marshes belong to me, I suppose, as much as they do to you.’ ‘You’re not likely to have business here at this time of night. You’ve been dogging my footsteps,’ said Darley, without the least consideration for probability. ‘Follow _you_!’ exclaimed Larry, with a big oath; ‘it would be a long time before I’d take the trouble to care what happened to you. And since you ask my business here, pray what may yours be? You didn’t think to find Farmer Murray’s daughter in the marshes at twelve o’clock at night, did you?’ ‘You insolent hound! how dare you take that young lady’s name upon your lips in my presence?’ ‘I’ve as good a right to name her as you have—perhaps better. It was at her bidding I came here to-night. Did she send you here, too?’