“She’s comin’ to our beech-tree,” said Robert to himself; “she’s comin’ to meet me.” And for the moment he saw the world red. He too turned and began to stride fiercely towards the trysting-place. As he entered the wider track he stopped and looked to his gun. But one barrel was loaded. He twisted round his cartridge bag, and with impatient, trembling fingers found the cartridge for the other barrel. He reached the beech-tree first and stood gripping his gun tight and glaring up the path, still through that red haze. All at once he saw her coming, very slowly, with her head bent. Half-hidden by the tree-trunk he waited, motionless as a statue, for her to give the accustomed signal; at the first sound of it he would shoot her through the heart. She came quite near, raised her head, and sighed. Then the keeper made a step towards her; his grip on the gun relaxed. “You here already?” she asked, and turning towards him laid her little hands upon his breast. It was the first time she had ever voluntarily touched him, and the man started and flushed. “Robert,” she said falteringly. “I--I--want to tell ’ee summat.” Then his great chest heaved and the gun dropped from his hand. “Eh, bless you for that word, my lass!” he cried brokenly. “I reckoned you meant to cheat me.” “Then you do guess?” stammered Rebecca. “Oh, Robert--’tis Jim. He be come back--he only went away to get work after all.” Robert’s heart leaped up with an odd mixture of anguish and joy. It was her sweetheart--“the only man in the world”. Who could blame the lass? “Ah,” he said unsteadily, “coom back, is he? It’s right then. You be in the right to stick to him if he’ll stick to you.” “Oh, e-es,” returned the girl quickly, “he’ve a-come back for that--he do want us to get married at once.” A spasm crossed Robert’s face. “You’re not afeard now, I see,” he said. “Oh, I can’t help it, I can’t help it,” she cried. “I love him best--I did al’ays love him best, but I--I--oh, Robert, I be so sorry!” He drew down her hands and gently shook them; then he let them drop. “It’s right,” he said, “ye’ve no need to fret yoursel’, my lass--you’re a good lass--I give ye j’y.” He stooped and picked up his gun, half-absently unloading it, and dropping the cartridges into his pocket. Then he turned towards Rebecca again. “I’ll say good afternoon,” he said. Rebecca extended her hand with a sob, and he shook it once more. “Good afternoon,” he repeated, and left her.