It was not the horse, but the horse’s rider that was of consequence. Where was she? What had happened? Spurred by an agony of apprehension, Wynyard ran in the direction from which the runaway had appeared. In five minutes’ time a speck, and then a figure came into sight, and this presently resolved itself into Miss Morven--apparently unhurt. She, too, had been running; her habit was splashed, she carried her hat in her hand, her beautiful hair was becomingly loosened, and she had a brilliant colour. As Wynyard slowed down to a walk, she called to him-- “Have you seen my horse?” “Yes; he must be in Ottinge by this time,” was the comforting rejoinder. “Why didn’t you stop him?” “It would have wasted a lot of time, and I wanted to see what had happened to you.--I was afraid you’d had a spill.” This was not the ever silent and respectful chauffeur to whom Miss Morven had been hitherto accustomed; but no less a person than Lieutenant Wynyard, late of the Red Hussars, who, in a cheery voice, addressed her as an equal--as no doubt he was. So be it. She instantly decided to abandon herself to the situation. Possibly he would now confide something about himself, and how and why he came to be in her aunts’ service. So, after a momentary hesitation, she replied-- “Oh no, I only got off to open a gate, and Rufus broke away. I suppose I shall have to walk home!” To this Wynyard secretly and joyfully agreed, but merely said-- “I see you are alone.” “Yes; father and I rode over to Shrapton-le-Steeple; he wanted to see Mr. Harnett, a literary friend, and Mr. Harnett had so much to show and to say that he persuaded father to stay and dine, as there is a moon, and I came home by the short-cut. I must be three miles from Ottinge?” and she halted and deliberately looked about her. “Yes,” he replied; “a good three miles.” (Oh, a very good three miles, during which he would have Aurea’s undivided company--what a piece of luck!) For some little time the couple proceeded in silence--a sensitive silence. During the interval since their last meeting, they had accomplished a vast amount of very special thinking--many disturbing, dominating, and dangerous thoughts had entered the young lady’s brain, and she said to herself-- “I must keep perfectly composed, and if ever he intends to speak freely, now--now is the time! To think of us two alone on Yampton Hills, three miles away from home!” Somehow those three miles held a thrilling prospect. Wynyard, for his part, was longing to utter what was in his mind; here was his one grand opportunity; and yet for several hundred yards a strange silence hung between them, though the man was burning to speak and the girl was longing to listen; meanwhile moments, precious as life itself, were ebbing fast! At last the conversation began to trickle; the topics were the choir, the boy scouts, old Thunder’s pig, and Mrs. Hogben’s face-ache--a spent cartridge in the path introduced sport and shooting.