They were nearing the gate leading into the great home field, and Sage, trembling and agitated to a terrible degree, hurried on, feeling that, once within sight of the house, Cyril Mallow would leave her. Her mind was confused, and the struggle going on between duty and inclination was terrible; while the knowledge that she was so weak and yielding towards her companion half maddened her for the time. "Why do you hurry on so?" he pleaded. "Am I to be driven away? Am I to leave home, and go anywhere that fate may drift me?" "Oh, no, no, no," she moaned. "This is too cruel to me. Pray, pray leave me now." "Then I may hope?" "No," she cried, with a fresh accession of strength, as she laid her hand upon the gate; "I have promised to be Luke Ross's wife." "His you shall never be," he said, in a hoarse whisper. "You do not love him, and you shall not fling yourself away. Sage, you shall be mine, and--" "Well, young man, are you obliged to whisper what you say to my niece? Come, Sage, my girl, it's time you were indoors." "Uncle!" cried Sage, joyously, as she sprang to his side with a sigh of relief. "Yes, my girl," he said, coldly, "it is uncle;" and he stuck his thistle staff down into the soft earth, and leaned his hands upon the round top. "You can go on," he continued; "I'm not coming home yet." "But, uncle," she cried, excitedly. "Go home, my lass," he said, imperatively. "Yes, dear," she half sobbed; "but you will not--" "I say go home!" he shouted; and, with a low wail, she turned off, and walked hurriedly towards the farm, her uncle standing watching her, while Cyril Mallow coolly took a cigar-case from his breast pocket, opened it, carefully selected a cigar, picking, choosing, and returning one after the other till he had found one to his fancy, when he snapped to the case once more and thrust it back in his pocket, afterwards biting off the cigar-end and proceeding to light it with a fusee that evinced a strong dislike to burst into sparks and then smoulder away. As he did this, however, he kept glancing furtively at the Churchwarden, who was watching the retiring form of Sage, her troubled mien winning a glance or two from Cyril as well. The cigar burned badly, and had to be lit again, this time being watched by the Churchwarden with a kind of good-humoured contempt for the man who could smoke those rolls of tobacco-leaf in place of an honest pipe. At last the cigar drew freely, and the eyes of the two men met. "I'm in for another row now," said Cyril, to himself. "Awkward; very. Never mind; I don't care." "Now, young man," said Portlock, at last, in a very short, blunt fashion, "it seems to me that you and I had better have a few words together of a sort." "When and where you please," said Cyril, carelessly. "Let's walk along here, then," said the Churchwarden, pointing down the lane with his thistle staff.