Bess drew back behind the window-curtain; somehow she hoped he would not see her, she hoped she might not have to see him. She had seen him several times since that day of her father’s brutal bidding, but she had never been frightened of him, for he got so little—so very little—“forrarder,” but to-day a sudden instinct bade her beware. It was a working day and she had not expected him. He knocked, but she did not move. “Bess,” called her mother from the kitchen, “open the door, I can’t go just now.” Still she did not answer. The woman pushed open the door of communication. “Don’t stand gapin’ there, child,” whispered she. “Didn’t you ’ear a knock? Why, Lor’, it’s Mr. Preston,” she added, peeping through the muslin and seeing the broad back on the threshold. “It’s a good job you’ve got a clean frock on. Look sharp, I ain’t fit to be seen. I must go up-stairs and change.” And she went into the kitchen again and closed the door softly. There was no help for it; Bess opened the front door. Preston turned round, he looked a bit shame-faced; he had on his best, but it was wet and he looked his worst; he put down his umbrella and stood there fumbling with it. “Won’t you step in?” she said at last. He crossed the threshold, and then she saw that he had a letter in his hand. Something in the look of it made her heart beat. She pushed open the door of the sitting-room and went in before him. “I come across a little maid down at the foot of the ’ill,” said he, closing the door after him, “and she asted me if I was a-comin’ up to the farm. I don’t know how she guessed I might be, but she said I was to give ye this ’ere letter ’cos she’d got to go to school, and she’d come up in the arternoon for the penny.” Bess held out a trembling hand and he put the letter into it. “But it ain’t for you, are it?” said he, puzzled. There did not seem to be much blood in the whole of the girl’s body before, but all there was rushed to her face now; her eyes shone and a faint smile flickered across her lips. “Yes, yes,” murmured she, forgetting caution in her joy; “it’s for me!” She did not open it, she held it in her hand gazing at it. She knew well enough what it said—it said that he was there, waiting for her, coming to her, loving her: the knowledge that she had it to read when she liked was enough. “You’re never ’vertising for a situation,” said Preston, aghast, “and your father so well to do!” The words recalled her to herself. “No, no,” she said quickly. “O’ course not.” Preston looked away, twirling his cap in his hands. He did not like to ask her why her own name was not on the letter; that would have seemed like prying. So he was silent. “Won’t ye sit down?” said Bess, in a minute. “Father’s out, but he’ll be back soon, and mother ’ll be down in a minit. Unless ye’d like to leave a message?”