There was trampled snow under the window. A man was standing there in the moonlight, the upper part of his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. A dwarfed and exaggerated silhouette of his broad and burly figure was thrown by the moon’s light upon the snow. He was standing with one arm against the wall, while his head was but six feet or less below the ledge of the low window. “Bess.” The girl leaned out again, and looked down into the man’s face. “Is that you, Dan?” “Yes. Old Ursula’s snoring, eh?” “What are you meddling here at midnight for?” She could see the man’s hairy face straining up towards her, the lips parted in an insinuating grin, the moonlight shining in his eyes. “I’ve had a dream of you, Bess,” he said. She frowned, and stared down at him almost fiercely from her vantage-point. “Well, what of that?” “It’s the saint’s night, lass. I reckon you’d rather see a man of blood and muscle under your window than lie dreaming of that sheep-faced fool of a David.” Bess’s mouth curled in the moonlight. She drew her red cloak about her throat, and laughed at the man beneath her on the snow. “Go home to bed, you great fool,” she said. “Do you think I shall thank you for being dragged up in the cold to see your ugly face?” Dan Grimshaw stood back from the window and looked up at her with his teeth showing above his beard. “Steady, Bess!” he growled—“steady!” She made as though to close the window, her bare arm gleaming in the moonlight as she reached for the catch. “You are not my man, Dan Grimshaw,” she said, curling her lips over the words. “Maybe young David would have had a kiss thrown him,” he retorted, hotly. “Maybe—he would.” “I’ll break the young fool’s back if I catch him dangling at your heels.” “Take care of your own business, Dan,” she said, clapping to the casement and creeping back to bed. IV Bess was coming over the snow next morning from the thatched shed where she had been milking Dame Ursula’s cows, when Dan Grimshaw slouched round the corner of the cottage with his gun over his shoulder. He had been away in the woods early and had brought back a hare, a brace of woodcock, and a widgeon that he had knocked over in the old fish-ponds of the Abbey of Holy Cross. A black spaniel followed at his heels. Bess, in her red petticoat, her cheeks aglow under her coal-black hair, came over the snow towards him with the fresh milk frothing in the pail. “Morning to ye, Bess,” quoth the great, hairy-faced animal whose huge calves and bulging shoulders were those of a stunted giant. “I’ve brought ye back some game, lass, in return for breaking your sleep last night. I’m sorry if I angered ye.”