Jeffray turned, and leaned upon one hand, looking at the pool and the reflection of the sky that colored the water. “Did you believe it?” he asked her, quietly. “Yes, I had to.” “What did you think?” “I thought it wonderful that you should have been so kind to me.” Jeffray plucked at the long grass with his hands, and laughed, and the note of bitterness in his laughter made her understand all that was hidden in his heart. “You were generous to me, Bess,” he said, grimly; “and how often I have hated myself, you cannot tell. Still, child—” and he looked up at her with brightening eyes—“it is not for me to put the weight upon your shoulders. I do not know whether I shall marry this fine lady. Let us forget her to-night, you and I.” He might have told Bess that he hated Jilian, for her woman’s instinct had seized the truth, a secret joy finding rebellion easy in her heart. Jeffray had no love for the woman he was to marry, a confession that Bess had almost hoped to hear. She felt now that she could lean on Jeffray, and look perhaps for a more mysterious thing than pity. Bess understood but vaguely what the future might devise. It was sufficient for her to know that Jeffray’s thoughts were hers and not Miss Hardacre’s. A great barrier seemed to have been beaten down between them, and she felt happier that night than she had felt for many days. They talked on as the twilight gathered, like children beside a deep and treacherous river, the one bank rich with sunshine, the other a chaos of light and shade. As yet they would not dare the deeps. Sufficient unto the hour was their joy in each other’s presence. When the twilight deepened, Bess went away through the solemn yews, smiling to herself over the new hope born within her heart, while Jeffray rode back like one in a dream through the darkening thickets, and the long, odorous grass towards his home. Before noon next day he had shaken Dick Wilson by the hand, and was travelling over the heavy Sussex roads, Peter Gladden wondering why his master looked so sad.