"Don't you like it?" asked Miss Agatha Brown with a smile. "Oh, it will do for the present," laughed Charlie. "Well, I don't mean to keep it all my life. I've spent to-day, Mr. Merceron, in spying out your house. Nettie Wallace and I ventured quite near. It's very pretty." "Rather dilapidated, I'm afraid." "What's the time, Mr. Merceron?" "Half-past six. Oh, by Jove!" "Well? Afraid of seeing poor Agatha?" "I should see nobody but you, if you were here. No. I forgot that. I've got to meet someone at the station at a quarter-past seven." "Oh, do tell me who?" "You'd be none the wiser. It's a Mr. Victor Sutton." "Victor Sutton!" she exclaimed, with a glance at Charlie which passed unnoticed by him. "Is he a friend of yours?" "I suppose so. Of my family's, anyhow." "Good-by. I'm going," she announced. "You'll be here to-morrow?" "Yes. For the last time." She dropped this astounding thunderbolt on Charlie's head as though it had been the most ordinary remark in the world. "The last time! Oh, Miss---" No: somehow he could not lay his tongue to that "Miss Brown." "I can't spend all my life in Lang Marsh," said she. "Agatha," he burst out. "No, no. This is not the last time. Sha'n't we keep that?" she asked, with a provokingly light-hearted smile. "You promise to be here to-morrow?" "Oh, yes." "I shall have something to say to you then," Charlie announced with a significant air. "Oh, you never lack conversation." "You'll be here at five?" "Precisely," she answered with mock gravity; "and now I'm gone!" Charlie took off his straw hat, stretched out his right hand, and took hers. For a moment she drew back, but he looked very handsome and gallant as he bowed his head down to her hand, and she checked the movement. "Oh, well!" she murmured; she was protesting against any importance being attached to the incident. Charlie, having paid his homage, walked, or rather ran, swiftly away. To begin with, he had none too much time if he was to meet Victor Sutton; secondly, he was full of a big resolve, and that generally makes a man walk fast. The lady pursued a more leisurely progress. Swinging her hat in her hand, she made her way through the tangled wood back to the high-road, and turned towards Mr. Prime's farm. She went slowly along, thinking perhaps of the attractive young fellow she had left behind her, wondering perhaps why she had promised to meet him again. She did not know why, for there was sure to happen at that last meeting the one thing which she did not, she supposed, wish to happen. However, a promise is a promise. She heard the sound of wheels behind her, and, turning, found the farmer's spring-cart hard on her heels. The farmer was driving, and by his side sat a nice-looking girl dressed in the extreme of fashion. On the back seat was a young man in a very light suit, with a fine check pattern, and a new pair of brown leather shoes. The cart pulled up. "We can make room for ye, Miss," said old Mr. Prime.