But Nat remained silent, as if he had not heard, and appeared to be lost in thought, as indeed he was; his promise to go up to the Manor Farm that night returning with some unpleasant compunction to his heart. The beauty of the stranger was still before his eyes, the sound of her wild singing seemed to fill his ears; he longed to be alone in the grey morning light, that he might walk by himself and dream of her .... Tim was not unwilling to leave him to himself; he was never disposed to loiter a long time over talk. ‘Well, lad,’ he said to him, ‘I will not hinder thee; go on to thy work. I’m right down glad all the same as thou know’st nought o’ this young Gillan--he’s an idle chap as ’ud do no good to thee. It’s like as I may be going to thy home--Annie will be there, I suppose--’ there was a tremor in his voice. ‘One must make the best o’ such days as one can get, it isn’t oft as I can be free. Good-day to thee, lad,’ but Nat only bestowed a nod for answer, and without looking back went on quickly to his work. The eyes of the young workman followed him as he moved, a solitary figure in the grey morning light, a shapely lad with hair crisp beneath his cap, and his bag of tools slung upon shoulders that bore the burden well. Before him, in front of the flat fields and roads, rose an ominous mass of heavy storm-clouds, whose shadow, falling upon the earth and trees, made the grey morning appear still greyer than before; though in the east, through the ripples that seemed made for angels’ feet, the rising sun broke in resistless might. It was towards the east that the workman turned his face, as, with something of a sigh, he began to walk on again; but its brightness made no impression on his thoughts, which appeared to be bent beneath a weight of anxiety. ‘I’ll go an’ see Annie,’ he thought, ‘an’ talk to her; I’ll happen persuade her a bit; poor child--poor child. I’ve not done much good wi’ the lad, but I donno care for him, I’ll do what I can to save Jenny Salter’s girl.’ With these words, and with renewed vigour in his steps, he walked on rapidly towards the village street. CHAPTER VII TIM WHO was this guardian angel who was making an attempt to save from threatening danger Jenny Salter’s boy and girl, who had risen from his bed upon a holiday to deliver a warning in the grey light of the dawn, this guardian angel in blue cap and corduroys, with lean, intelligent face, and eyes bright beneath a scar? Let us pause for an instant to listen to his story, which is not out of place in this tale of village life, although it is one that advancing civilisation may help to render impossible in time. Under no tender influences had poor Tim been reared, no motherly hand had made life smooth for him. This was his story.