“You’ll excuse me if I’m too free, miss,” said Frewin presently. “But you see—well, there, it was talk o’ the village, so ye must ’ave ’eard it with the rest! I was fooled once, and that’s the truth, and I don’t mean to be fooled again.” There was no answer, and Letty’s face was somehow hidden behind the blushing blossom of a low branch of the apple-tree. “So p’r’aps you’d excuse me,” he repeated, “if I was to ask you, as a plain man, whether you was a-walkin’ with Lambert o’ Bank ’Oliday when I was in town?” The face emerged from behind its leafy screen, and was no longer tremulous but haughty. “Well, it _is_ a queer question,” said she, “and no mistake! But,” she added quickly, seeing him turn away,—“well, there, I don’t mind answering: Mr. Lambert asked me, but I didn’t fancy ’im. I sat alone all day.” And it may have been the shame of such a confession from an acknowledged village belle that called the blush again to her cheek. “Ye don’t say so, now,” declared the man, pleased. “Ye see, ye took Lambert’s loan as against mine the other day at the station, and, one thing and another—well, there—a man ain’t goin’ to be fooled twice, you bet.” At the last word she hung her head lower than ever, and there was another pause. At last he said, sheepishly now: “But I don’t s’pose ye would walk with me next Sunday. Though it seems clearin’ up for a nice day.” He waited for an answer, but none came. Only after a minute or so a little sound as of stifled sobbing came from behind the white screen. “Lor, whatever is the matter?” cried Frewin aghast. “Is it me that’s upset ye, my dear? There, ye don’t need to come if ye don’t want to. Any girl can say a feller nay. There’s no ’arm done yet.” But still she cried on. “I’d come right enough,” faltered she at last, between the sobs. “But—but there _is_ ’arm done.” And then suddenly she dried her eyes, and looked up at him with frank, fearless gaze. “Your mother said as I’d been kind to ye, Mr. Frewin,” said she. “But I ’ain’t been—for I’ve behaved bad to ye. Yes, I ’ave. And ye said as you weren’t goin’ to be fooled again. And—and I like ye too well to fool ye, and that’s truth. And—and so I’d rather tell ye as I _’ave_ fooled ye already.” His face went white, and he stared at her. “Fooled me!” echoed he. “Not a bit of it!” “Yes, I ’ave,” insisted she doggedly. “The girls said ye was a rude, surly chap as wouldn’t throw a word to any of us, and I swore I’d make you. And then Charlie Lambert dared me to, and wagered me a pair o’ gloves it’d be no go. It was just a lark,” said she half defiantly, but then added, with a tell-tale throb of the voice, “though you can’t say as I’ve ever done it.” Frewin did not smile, the unconscious humour of the phrase did not seem to strike him; he was upset. “It was a dirty trick to play on a chap,” said he at last, “and Lambert shall pay me out for it.”