It was a pleasant October evening; there was a touch of frost in the air, which was bracing and pleasant after the heavy atmosphere of the town. When he got close to the farmhouse, he saw Claire crossing the farmyard on her way to the kitchen door, with a heavy load of wood in her arms. It seemed to him that her face looked sad and worn, that odd little face which had so little prettiness in repose except for those who knew the possibilities for fun, for tenderness, that lay dormant in her bright brown eyes. He hesitated a moment, and then went quickly through the gate. “May I help you, Miss Claire?” She did not start or pretend to be surprised. She had seen him coming. She stopped. “You know what I told you, that you were not to come here again,” she said severely. But it was severity which did not frighten him. “Well,” he began humbly, “I’ve kept away nearly a fortnight.” “But I said you were never to come again.” “I don’t think you can have meant it though. You would have given me some reason if you had.” Claire frowned and tapped her little foot impatiently on the ground. “Oh, you know, you must know. You are not stupid, Mr. Elshaw.” “I’m beginning to think I am,” said Bram, as he began to take her load from her with gentle insistence. It amused and touched him to note how glad she was, in spite of her assumed displeasure, to give her work up to him in the old way. He opened the kitchen door, and took the wood into the scullery, where Joan was at work, just as he used to do for her, and then went through the kitchen slowly on his way out again. Claire was standing by the big deal table. “Thank you, thank you very much,” said she. But her tone was not so bright as usual; she was more subdued altogether--a quiet, demure, downcast little girl. Bram, making his way with leaden feet to the outer door, wanted to say something, but hardly knew what. He hoped that she would stop him before he reached the door, but he was disappointed. He put his hand upon the latch and paused. Still she said nothing. He opened the door, and glanced back at her. Although the look she gave him in return had nothing of invitation in it, he felt that there was something in her sad little face which made it impossible to leave her like that. “Miss Claire,” said he, and he was surprised to find that his voice was husky and not so loud as he expected, “mayn’t I finish the dressing-table?” “If you like.” Her voice was as husky as his own. Without another word he set about the work, found the saw, which, by-the-bye, was his own, the wood, and the rest of the things he wanted, and in less than ten minutes was at work in the old way, and Claire, fetching her needlework, was busy by the fire, just as she used to be. She was too proud to own it; but Bram saw quite plainly that this quiet re-establishment of the old situation made her almost as happy as it did him. “Things going all right, Miss Claire?” asked he as he took up his plane.