‘Nay, he bain’t. But I’m expectin’ him back every minute. He be gone some time now, and he said he ’d just catch the carrier. I had a hard job to get all packed and ready, but ’t is done now.’ It was all packed, the straps fastened, the lock made secure. Rosalie was too late after all; the important postscript which was to supplement the letter could not, as she intended, be slipped among Richard’s effects. Her heart gave a sudden throb that was not altogether of pain. She had honestly tried, but fate willed otherwise. ‘I don’t think I’ll wait,’ she stammered, scarcely knowing what she said. ‘I shall see Mr. Sharpe to-morrow, and I should only be in your way. I dare say you are busy.’ ‘Nay, not that busy now, ma’am. I’m just a-makin’ a parcel of a big thick coat o’ Richard’s. ’T would n’t go in the box nohow, and I’m tryin’ to pack it in paper, but ’t is that heavy it do slip out at one side so soon as I get t’ other wrapped up.’ ‘Let me help you,’ said Rosalie. ‘Four hands are better than two.’ She had never seen Richard wear this coat, yet the mere sight of it—the mere consciousness that it was his caused a recurrence of that strange wave of faintness. ‘We want a little bit more string, Bithey,’ she said with the quaver in her voice which had been noticeable before. ‘I think there’s a little bit on the dresser shelf,’ returned the old woman; and, dropping her end of the parcel, she went across the kitchen. This was Rosalie’s chance. She was white to the very lips, but she did not flinch. With cold, trembling fingers, she hid away the note in the breast-pocket of the coat; he would be sure to find it there. Bithey discovered nothing, and presently, the packet being secured, Rosalie betook herself homewards. ‘I ’ve done it!’ she said, pausing when she reached the solitude of the downs. ‘Thank God! I ’ve done it! It will be all right now.’ But it was not surprising that in the midst of her self-congratulations on having so successfully barred herself out of Eden she should once more melt into tears. CHAPTER X Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met, or never parted, We had ne’er been broken-hearted. BURNS. THE cutting and making of Rosalie’s hay had been proceeding briskly in the Church Meadow; the last swathes had fallen, and every available pair of hands had been called upon to assist in the work, for experienced weather-prophets had foretold gloomily that the actual ‘fine spell’ could not be expected to last. Towards evening on the second day Farmer Sharpe stood alone in the centre of the field; mopped, for the hundredth time, his perspiring brow, and cast a contemplative look round. ’T was past seven o’clock; the men had gone home some time before, but he had remained to take a final survey of the scene of their labours.