Scarcely more than a rut, it was strewn with wisps of hay, for they had not yet raked this last field, and the air smelled very sweet. She dawdled, every sense throbbing, aware of his approach behind her, its measured dwelling on either foot which no Bowden could abandon, even when late for church. He ranged up; his hair was greased, his square figure stuffed handsome into board-like Sunday dittoes. His red face shone from soap, his grey eyes shone from surplus energy. From head to foot he was wonderful. Would he pass her or fall in alongside? He fell into step. The girl’s heart thumped, her cheeks burned under the powder, so that the scent thereof was released. Young Bowden’s arm, that felt like iron, bumped her own, and at the thrill which went through her she half-closed her eyes. “I reckon we’re tu late,” he said. Her widened eyes challenged his stare. “Don’t you want to see Molly Winch, then?” “No, I don’t want any words about that dog.” Quick to see her chance, the girl exclaimed: “Ah! ’Twas a shame--it was, but she’d think more of her uncle’s leg than of ’im, I know.” Again his arm pressed hers. He said: “Let’s go down into the brake.” The bit of common land below the field was high with furze, where a few brown-gold blossoms were still clinging. A late cuckoo called shrilly from an ash-tree below. The breeze stirred a faint rustling out of the hedgerow trees. Young Bowden sat down among the knee-high bracken that smelled of sap and put his arm about her. III In parishes with scattered farms and no real village, gossip has not quite its proper wings; and the first intimation Steer had that his niece was being slighted came from Bowden himself. Steer was wont to drive the seven miles to market in a small spring cart filled with produce on the journey in, and with groceries on the journey out, holding his east-wind face, fixing his eyes on the ears of his mare. His niece sometimes sat beside him--one of those girls whose china is a little too thin for farm life. She was educated, and played the piano. Steer was proud of her in spite of his low opinion of her father, who had died of consumption and left Steer’s sister in poor circumstances. Molly Winch’s face, indeed, had refinement; it coloured easily a faint rose pink, was pointed in the chin, had a slightly tip-tilted nose, and pretty truthful eyes--a nice face. Steer’s mare usually did the seven miles in just under forty minutes, and he was proud of her, especially when she overhauled Bowden’s mare. The two spring carts travelled abreast of each other just long enough for these words to be exchanged: “Mornin’, Bowden!” “Mornin’! Mornin’, Miss Molly, ’aven’t seen yu lately; thought yu were visitin’!” “No, Mr. Bowden.” “Glad to see yu lukin’ up s’well. Reckon Ned’s tu busy elsewhere just now.” It was then that Steer’s mare drew well ahead. ‘My old mare’s worth two of his,’ he thought. Bowden’s cart was distant dust before he turned to his niece and said: