There was a look almost suggestive of fear on her face for the moment, despite its spirit of defiance. She glanced round her swiftly, and drew closer to Jeffray. “I am afraid of Dan.” “Afraid, Bess?” “Yes, as much as I am of anything.” Jeffray understood her meaning of a sudden. His sensitive face grew strangely stern and thoughtful, and there was a tightness about his mouth, a steadiness in his eyes that would have puzzled Mr. Lancelot Hardacre. “You keep the pistols by you?” he asked, quietly. Bess pointed to the rock where her red cloak lay. “See, one is there,” she said. “They are the best friends I have in Pevensel. I look to the priming every day.” Jeffray’s usually smooth brow was still knotted in thought. “I wonder if I could help you, Bess,” he said. She gazed at him curiously, with one hand at her throat. “Perhaps,” she answered. “How?” She glanced round her rapidly as though accustomed to fear what the woods might conceal. The sun was low in the west and the forest-clad valley full of golden mist. She took her cloak and pistol from the rock, and pointed to a path that branched off from the main ride into a larch-wood, telling Jeffray that they could reach the Beacon Rock heath by the path. Thus with the shadows of the twilight stealing over the woods, and the birds piping lustily in every thicket, Bess and Richard Jeffray wandered through Pevensel together, looking with questioning youth into each other’s eyes. Bess began to tell him of the memories that stood like frail ghosts on the threshold of her forest life. She told him of the flitting fancies of other days, of the faces and scenes she but half remembered. Jeffray, impressed by her eager intensity of belief, reacted to the many suggestions her words inspired. He watched her as she walked beside him, tall, lissome, and convincing, her looks eloquent towards the proving of her childish memories. Jeffray had seen what country hoydens were worth in the matter of charm and of beauty, and had discovered pretty milkmaids to be a myth. Bess was as different from any Sussex Blowzelinda as a stately cypress from a dwarf oak outcrowded in some sodden wood. When she had ended he turned to her with no little eagerness, as though her needs were already his. “Have you ever spoken of this to any one?” he asked her. Her face had kindled in the telling of the tale, and her eyes met Jeffray’s and held them steadily. “I have often spoken to old Ursula, but she has always laughed at me.” “And you have no trinkets or rings that might have come from your mother?” She shook her head, still looking at him solemnly. “Not one.” “And why do they want to marry you to Dan?” “Because he’s hot for my sake,” she answered, coloring and looking fierce.