She had marked, at first idly, then with some interest, the figure which was toiling up the hill, feeling somewhat embarrassed when she discovered on its nearer approach that she was herself the object of a somewhat unusual scrutiny. The grey eyes which looked at her so intently from out of the brown face had a very peculiar mixture of expressions. There was curiosity in them and admiration—to that she was accustomed—but there was something more: a wonder, an almost incredulous delight. Thus might a man look upon the face of a very dear friend whom he had not expected to see—thus almost might he meet the sweetheart from whom he had been parted for years. As he approached the bank he slackened his pace, and presently came to a standstill immediately beneath Rosalie’s pinnacle of moss-grown earth. They remained face to face with each other for a moment or two, Rosalie gazing down, fascinated, at the man’s eyes, in which the joyful wonder was growing ever brighter. Rousing herself at last with an effort, and colouring high, she turned and hastened along the crest of the bank until she came to the gig, descended, rapidly gathered up the reins, and mounted into the vehicle. Seeing that the stranger, though he had begun to walk slowly on, continued to watch her, and being, besides, annoyed and confused at her own temporary embarrassment, she jerked the reins somewhat sharply, and touched up Nigger with the whip. The astonished animal, unaccustomed to such treatment, started off at a brisk pace, and the gig rattled down the steep incline with a speed which would have filled its late owner with horror. The disaster which he would certainly have prophesied was not long in coming. Nigger’s legs were not quite on a par with his mettle, and presently, stumbling over a loose stone, he was unable to recover himself, and dropped fairly and squarely on both knees. He was up in an instant, but Rosalie, jumping out of the cart, and running to his head, uttered a cry of anguish. Through the white patches of dust which testified to Nigger’s misfortune she saw blood trickling. A moment later rapid footsteps were heard descending the hill, and the bicyclist came to her assistance. Bending forward, he carefully examined Nigger’s knees, and then turned to Rosalie; the curious expression which had so puzzled and annoyed her having completely vanished and given place to one of respectful concern. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said; ‘it is not much—barely skin-deep—I doubt if there will be any marks.’ ‘He has never been down before,’ said she tearfully. ‘Poor Nigger! Good old fellow! I should n’t have driven you so fast down the hill.’ ‘His legs should be attended to at once,’ said the stranger practically. ‘Have you far to go?’ ‘Oh yes—sixteen miles. To Branston.’ He darted a keen glance at her. ‘Branston,’ he echoed. ‘I am going there myself to-morrow, or rather I am going to a place about a mile this side of it.’