"And Lucy--is she as pretty as ever? But now I come to think of it you didn't consider her pretty. Well, I hope she's living in the seventh heaven of happiness with her big booby of a husband. I never thought that Peter Fleming would marry her--Barbara was more in his line." Mally made no reply. "You're no hand at gossiping," he said. "I'll have to go to Greystones to hear the news. But tell me this--there's a good heart--does Lucy ever ask after me?" "Whiles." "Whiles! as a Christian sister asks after a Christian brother, anxious for the state of his soul! What sort of a man is Peter?" "He's a good man." "Oh, I heard he had brought his father's grey hairs with sorrow to the grave! You see I've not been kept in darkness all these years, though you told me very little, Mally. I fear Peter won't have much good-will for me, since we baited his pet bear that night. Did it live or die?" "He keeps it at the mill-house. It was poor sport to set the dogs on a gently creature like yon." "A low trick, Mally, I've thought so ever since. I'm glad it lived. But it never cared much for me." "It never had much cause to. You'd better keep out of its way, Master Joel." "I'll not meddle with it, don't fear." He got up, wandered through the house, whistled carelessly, then went out. He stood on the road looking first north, then south. North led up to Greystones, south through the forest to the village and the old mill. He could not decide which way to take. He looked at his watch. The hour was just nine, too early for a visit to Mistress Lynn, so he went in the other direction. He had no intention of seeking Lucy, but he wanted to look at the place where she lived. He left the road, and followed a by-path which would lead him to the banks of the beck opposite to the mill, and thus he would escape having to pass through the village. He had seen the house in the early morning when it looked little more than a blot through the twilight. Smoke was now rising from the chimneys, waving over the roof like an azure veil. The parlour window stood open, and the dimity curtains fluttered out and in with the draught. So this was Lucy's home--grey weather-beaten walls, an old wooden wheel, a cottage garden, and the rippling beck. There were flowers in pots upon the sill, and the curtains were gaily coloured. He thought that he would have given her a statelier house, silken window-hangings, rarer flowers. But she had not waited. For some minutes he stood, hidden by the trees, while his eyes roved over the irregular outlines, and fixed themselves upon the window. He wished that Lucy would look out. He wanted to see her again, to learn if he would still care for her, if her fair face would still have power to charm him.