Ugh! How hot and stuffy it was in this kitchen, where, in spite of the warm weather, a fire was blazing! The windows had not been opened all day, he felt sure; the odour of their recent repast still lingered in the air, mingled with the fumes of the particularly rank pipe which his uncle was then enjoying. He thought of the cool twilight without, of the downs with the fresh breeze blowing across them, of the path beside the hedge that led to Littlecomb, of the garden there—the garden where the thrush was singing, and where the roses and syringa were in full bloom. Ah, he could picture to himself the syringa with its white blossoms shining like pale lamps amid the dusky boughs. The garden still, and sweet, and dewy—where she was wandering at this hour! ‘Light up, man,’ said Isaac, pointing to Richard’s pipe. His nephew obeyed, but held it absently between his fingers. Isaac poked the blazing logs with his foot and bent forward, extending his hands to the glow; his big red face looked unnaturally large through the surrounding haze of smoke. Richard half rose from his chair, and then sank back again. Outside, came the tantalising thought again, outside—a few paces away, were the downs and the lonely path through the fields, and then the garden. The farmer was slowly nodding in the comfortable radiance. Richard’s unused pipe had gone out. _The garden_! _The garden_! Suddenly he rose from his chair, strode across the room, flung open the door, and was gone before his uncle had time to do more than turn his head. CHAPTER VIII Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon, Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even: Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven. Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, away! SHELLEY. ONCE outside, Richard flew along as though pursued by a thousand demons; here were the downs, with their delicious tart air—but he raced across them without pausing to inhale it; now to swing over the hedge and to cover the ground that still lay between him and the garden. The garden and her! His heart was thumping loudly against his ribs; a sound as of a rushing sea was in his ears. On, on! there were the lights twinkling from under the dark eaves—there was the gate set in the high wall. How it shook beneath his violent hand as he flung it open! He stood still at last, hardly breathing in his suspense. Was she there? All was still save for the rustling of the boughs and the faint warbling of the birds—more than one was celebrating evensong to-night. What if she should not be there! He walked on, slowly and unsteadily now, and presently there was a movement amid the greenery close at hand. Out of a little arbour set amid the shrubs a figure came gliding forth to meet him. She paused two paces away from him and her hands fell by her sides.