“You can make others happy now,” said Norton, and she was forced to listen to his impassioned appeal the whole way home. Half-frightened and wholly perplexed as to her own mind; she was thankful to gain the village, and avoiding the street, opened the south-east gate of the churchyard that they might cross to the Vicarage garden unobserved. But to her discomfort she found on approaching the old stone cross that Peter Waghorn was standing in the path apparently wrapt in contemplation of the symbol to which he so much objected. As they passed he turned his gleaming eyes full upon them, and though she gave him a cheerful “Good morning,” he made no reply, only touching his hat in a grudging and reluctant fashion. “A plague on that fellow,” said Norton; “he is enough to give any one a fit of the ague only to look on. But, for heaven’s sake, take pity on me and give me what I have pleaded for so humbly.” “Indeed, sir,” said Hilary, “I do not know what to say, but I think you ask what I cannot give.” They had entered the Vicarage, and she led the way to the sitting-room, hoping to find her uncle there. The room, however, was empty. “Give me my answer a few days hence,” said Norton, setting down the basket, “and to-day I will only ask a few of these flowers as a pledge. Will you fasten them in my doublet?” She could not well refuse this, and as she slipped the slender pink stalks through the button-hole, Norton suddenly threw his arms around her and kissed her passionately on the lips. “Let me go!” she cried, indignantly. “How dare you?” And with a half incoherent sentence as to his wishing to see the Vicar, she hurried from the room. “Now I have frightened her!” reflected Norton. “The one pretty maid in all this dull countryside. Dear innocent little soul! The pursuit grows interesting. I dare swear no man save St. Gabriel ever touched her lips before! Dame Elizabeth Hopton is a she-dragon, but thank the Lord there’s no mother here, and that fat housekeeper is a noodle, who will soon be at my beck and call.” As if summoned by his thought of her, Durdle at that moment entered with a tray of cakes and some excellent cider. “You will take something, sir, after your walk,” she said, looking with approval at his long, glossy auburn curls and gay attire. “Thank you, Mrs. Durdle, there’s no better cider in all Herefordshire than yours,” he said, with his genial smile. “Everything from this house is good, and ’tis due to your careful management.” Durdle beamed with pleasure at this praise. “Oh, sir, you flatter me,” she protested. “Not at all, ’tis naught but truth. What are these heartshaped cakes? They should be prophetic.” “They be queen cakes, sir,” said Durdle. “Do please to try one, for they be Mistress Hilary’s making.”