No answer. The lad slowly raised himself from the font, and stood with his head bent, looking down upon the ground. For once, Alice was excited, and could not restrain herself, although he had not so much as looked at her. For, whatever the meaning of this intimacy might be, she could not imagine that it would bring aught but ruin to him. ‘Oh, if she was good and would do you good,’ cried Alice, ‘I wouldn’t say a word to you, I’d be glad as you was glad. It’s not so, it isn’t, she’s bad, she flatters you, she tries to persuade you as she cares for you. What’s this as she’s been telling you about a letter? you haven’t been doing any wrong to the Squire for her?’ ‘So you’ve been a-spyin’, Alice Robson,’ Nat screamed out in a frenzy--the overmastering frenzy, which is the result of rage and shame; ‘you do things as t’ dirt in t’ street ’ud be ashamed to own, and then speak to me as if ye was t’ parson, an’ had t’ right to preach. I’ll make ye t’ laughing-stock of all t’ lads, I will! I’ll tell ’em as ye cared about me though I’ve never cared for ye! Ye’ve gi’en me a lot o’ preaching as ye thort must win my heart, but I’ve never had a grain o’ love for ye--did ye ever think I had?’ He flung out the words as men fling blows in darkness, intent upon striking and hurting if they can; and, as if borne backwards by the violence of his passion, the farmer’s daughter retreated, and leant against a seat. For one instant her face was averted, and he could only see that she trembled; but then, with no visible effort, she turned to him again. Her voice sounded gentle, restrained, in the intense silence of the church; it was evident that she had regained her self-control. ‘Nat,’ said Alice, gently, though with a slight quiver in her tone, ‘there was mother with me, she’s heard and seen everything. Ye had better speak to her, ask her to be quiet; she might do ye harm with the village and the Squire.’ It is impossible to say what there was in her tone and manner that made these words have the sound of a farewell, but he understood them--he knew that a sense of duty would not allow her to leave him without a warning even then. She was turning away, but she changed her mind, and stood still, leaning her hand upon the back of a seat; her voice was as gentle in its utterance as that of a child, who wishes to confess a fault. ‘I’m sorry I’ve given you trouble,’ those soft tones said to him; and she went on to the great doors, reached them, and was gone. Her footstep was only just audible on the stones, but it had the sound of the departure of a friend.