The reader may wonder how I should know her in this attire in the dusk, and where there was not the smallest probability of finding her. Suffice it to say that I did recognise her at once; and passing between two great tree-trunks, and through an opening in some under-wood, was by her side in a moment. But the noise of the wind had prevented her from hearing my approach, and when I uttered her name, she started violently, and, turning, drew herself up very haughtily, in part, I presume, to hide her tremor.—She was always a little haughty with me, I must acknowledge. Could there have been anything in my address, however unconscious of it I was, that made her fear I was ready to become intrusive? Or might it not be that, hearing of my footing with my parishioners generally, she was prepared to resent any assumption of clerical familiarity with her; and so, in my behaviour, any poor innocent “bush was supposed a bear.” For I need not tell my reader that nothing was farther from my intention, even with the lowliest of my flock, than to presume upon my position as clergyman. I think they all GAVE me the relation I occupied towards them personally.—But I had never seen her look so haughty as now. If I had been watching her very thoughts she could hardly have looked more indignant. “I beg your pardon,” I said, distressed; “I have startled you dreadfully.” “Not in the least,” she replied, but without moving, and still with a curve in her form like the neck of a frayed horse. I thought it better to leave apology, which was evidently disagreeable to her, and speak of indifferent things. “I was on my way to call on Mr Stoddart,” I said. “You will find him at home, I believe.” “I fancied you and Mrs Oldcastle in London.” “We returned yesterday.” Still she stood as before. I made a movement in the direction of the house. She seemed as if she would walk in the opposite direction. “May I not walk with you to the house?” “I am not going in just yet.” “Are you protected enough for such a night?” “I enjoy the wind.” I bowed and walked on; for what else could I do? I cannot say that I enjoyed leaving her behind me in the gathering dark, the wind blowing her about with no more reverence than if she had been a bush of privet. Nor was it with a light heart that I bore her repulse as I slowly climbed the hill to the house. However, a little personal mortification is wholesome—though I cannot say either that I derived much consolation from the reflection. Sarah opened the glass door, her black, glossy, restless eyes looking out of her white face from under gray eyebrows. I knew at once by her look beyond me that she had expected to find me accompanied by her young mistress. I did not volunteer any information, as my reader may suppose.