The conversation was carried on between the two for some time, after which they both rose and walked slowly towards the house. Peace was not sufficiently near to hear a word they said, but he judged, rightly enough, that their discourse was a pleasant one――being, in fact, made up of those airy nothings which are the golden dreams of life’s morning. The situation in which he found himself was, to say the least of it, a most trying one――it would have proved to be so to the most apathetic, but to a man of Peace’s temperament it was all but insupportable. “She can be haughty and distant enough when it suits her purpose, the deceitful minx,” he ejaculated, with bitterness; “but at other times she can be all honey. Bah! a plague on them both! That mealy-mouthed Tom Gatliffe, with his fine set speeches and goody-goody manner, has turned the gal’s head――that is the reason of her flouting me the other day.” The lovers now entered the cottage, and Peace crept along the side of the hedge till he had reached the lane. He sat down on a neighbouring stile and began to reflect――if a chaotic mass of fugitive thoughts rushing through an overheated brain can be called reflection. What should he do? How should he be avenged? Was it possible to break the golden fetters which bound the two together? These were questions he found some difficulty in answering. He had known Tom Gatliffe from boyhood; indeed, at one time they were schoolfellows. He was jealous of him even in those early days, for Tom was a diligent pupil, and in every way so superior to Peace that as a natural consequence they were never at any time what might be called pals. “He was always a proud, conceited upstart,” exclaimed Peace. “Always thought a deal of himself, and went in for the virtuous, and looked down upon me with something like contempt. That was bad enough, but worse has followed――he’s stolen from me the only girl I ever loved. I hate the fellow, curse him!” He rose from his seat and walked rapidly down the lane, muttering anathemas against Gatliffe and all his belongings. This did not appear to satisfy him, so he turned round and retraced his steps. He had no settled or defined purpose in so doing, and, indeed, he hardly knew why he turned back, unless it was occasioned by a reluctance to lose sight of the cottage in the occupation of the widow. He was so restless, so little himself, that he acted altogether in an erratic way. In the course of ten minutes or so he caught sight of a solitary figure at the extreme end of the lane. Peace came to a sudden halt; to all appearance from what he could make out the solitary messenger was none other than the detested Tom Gatliffe. In a minute or so after this he was assured of this fact; with rapid strides the young man hastened along. Peace waited; this was just what he desired. His face was distorted with passion, and wore on it a demoniacal expression.