“’Tis all very well for once,” he said; “this ’ere tay-party mun be overlooked for this time, I reckon; but there mun be no more on ’em. Do ye hear, lass? These ’ere woods is private, and Squire doesn’t intend no young wenches to go trapesin’ about in ’em o’ neets, talkin’ to the owls and that. I doubt ye don’t go lookin’ for bats and owls alone,” went on the keeper in a tone of ferocious banter. “I doubt some young chap----” “Oh, don’t!” interrupted she, flushing fiery red, “I can’t bear it!” And to his surprise and distress she burst into tears. “Eh, don’t ye cry, my lass!” he exclaimed with deep concern. “Whatever have I said to hurt ye? I ax your pardon. I meant no harm--no harm at all. Give over, there’s a good lass.” The girl sobbed on, with averted face. Robert looked distractedly round, and his glance fell upon the kettle which was boiling cheerfully. “She’d like her tea,” he said, confidentially addressing this kettle--“a sup o’ tea ’ull put her to rights. Come we’ll make it in a minute.” He reached for the teapot, rinsed it, dropped the contents of another little twisted paper into it, and poured in the boiling water. “Don’t fill it quite full,” said the girl, turning sharply round, and displaying a tear-stained face which was nevertheless alight with interest. “Oh, mustn’t I fill it? I always fill mine right up to the brim.” “Have you got nobody to do for you then?” “Nay, I’m a single man. I have lodgin’s over yonder, but I do for myself mostly.” He paused looking at the girl curiously. “You never told me your name,” he said. “You did never ax me,” she said with a dawning smile. “My name’s Rebecca Masters. I live down there, just at the foot of the hill, wi’ my grandmother.” “Father and mother livin’?” inquired Formby. “No, they died when I was quite a little thing.” “My father’s livin’ right enough,” he volunteered. “He’s a fine old chap, my father is.” “You’re Keeper Formby, bain’t ye?” inquired Rebecca with interest. “Eh! ye know me, do ye? A good few folks do, I doubt.” Here Robert drew himself up; he felt what was due to himself as a public character and once more his voice took a graver inflection. “Now, see you, my lass, you mustn’t coom here again.” “I’m to have nothin’, an’ to do nothin’,” broke out Rebecca passionately. “’Tis the only thing I care for, comin’ here where I did use to walk when--when I was happy.” Robert paused with a potato midway to his mouth. “Is he dead?” he inquired in a tone of respectful sympathy. “Who?” “Your young man.” “No,” she returned sharply, adding unwillingly, as if in response to his expectant gaze, “he’s gone away.” Robert pulled thoughtfully at his yellow beard, his blue eyes looking very kind and sympathetic the while. “P’r’aps he’ll coom back,” he hazarded after a moment.