Jethro was in the field beyond the garden. Pamela went to him over the border of crisp, crunching grass which edged the furrows. She loved that field in all its moods. She had watched it, consulted it so often from the shadow of the deep bay window. She remembered just how it appeared at each particular crisis of her life at Folly Corner--half shorn of its yellow corn on that first day; mystic with clearing mist and great green moon the night she came back; dull brown to-day with thin ice on the upturned tips of its even furrows. He was near the hedge, talking to Buckman, who was ditching. She went up and hooked her hand through his arm without saying a word. They had grown into that attitude--the affectionate, silent attitude of long, dear familiarity. Sometimes they would sit without speech for a whole evening, until he suddenly looked up from the paper with a tender look and stretched his big hand out to touch her fingers. The ditch was clean, the hedge hacked. Small heaps of black leaf mold spotted the fringe of grass. “You’ll be about done that job to-morrow,” Jethro said. “Just tie the fagots together and put them on the stack.” The two walked toward the house. “I think,” she said timidly, “that I would like to go to London to-morrow. Some shopping--that’s all. And I’d like a sight of London streets--a bit of color and movement. One wants that twice in a winter.” He looked at her suspiciously. The clear fire blazed in her face. Standing there with the icy ground under their feet and the scurrying, sunless sky above their heads, they read each other’s souls. “No,” she said passionately; “you can trust me. I think I can trust myself. London is very big. I am not likely to meet him.” “Go, if you like. But there will be a hard frost to-night and very likely snow to-morrow,” he returned, looking up to the sky for a weather sign. The clear, hard light showed his rugged face, stern and simple. CHAPTER XXIII. HE stopped at the door and said he must drive over to the Flagon House before dusk. Pamela went alone into the drawing-room and sat by the fire. The luxury and completeness of the room touched her with a sense of Jethro’s boundless generosity--all the more creditable because he was a frugal man. It was quite a modern room now--it had the thin, elegant touch which she preferred. Her tea came in. She threw aside her hat and coat, and toasted her knees while she read the newspaper. A queer hurry and unrest had taken possession of her. She kept worrying herself. Should she go to London to-morrow? Aunt Sophy had stirred her by the mere mention of London. Should she go? Should she stay at home? There was no harm in going. Shopping, tea with Barbara perhaps--nothing more. She would stop at Liddleshorn and ask Nancy or Egbert’s wife to go with her. There would surely be safety in that. Safety! The word made her blench and shrink. She instantly suspected herself. So there was really danger!