‘The old snake,’ muttered James Gillan, in a fury, by the window to which he strode as his uncle left the room; ‘he thinks himself clever, no doubt, to put me off, and to bind me with promises whilst he himself is free. At any rate, I need make no alteration now; I certainly will not give up my plans and hopes for _him_--a fine thing indeed it would be to lose the girl I love for the sake of an old rapscallion who gives words instead of coin!.... And yet if I lost his favour .... but that is not inevitable .... we will keep things dark for a while and bide our time; she ought really to consent to a little secrecy when I have shown myself willing to do so much for her .... And I shall have her, I shall at least be sure of that; and it may be that all things will turn out for the best.’ The sound of the opening door disturbed his meditations; he declined all refreshment, ordered his horse, and rode away. That night, a dark night, when all was indistinct, and even the stars were not brilliant in the sky, and the outlines of trees made dim and gloomy masses, and the village had closed its blinds and locked its doors--on that night, whilst the wide meadows lay beneath the stars, two shadowy figures met in the Thackbusk field. And as they stood there, with their arms round each other, they whispered to each other that all was arranged at last. CHAPTER XVII A PLEASANT EVENING ON that same evening, whilst darkness lay on the fields, and in the dim Thackbusk meadow the two wandering figures met, there were bright fires and lights and a pleasant sense of welcome within the closed shutters of the Manor Farm. The grate in the old kitchen was aglow with flames, there was a bronze lamp on the table, and the candles on the piano were lit; and by the piano, in her black lace evening dress, sat Tina, and at intervals she played and sang. Her weird, sweet voice lent itself to this fitful music, which rose and fell like the moaning of the wind. For a while she had been silent, and so had also her companion; and then, suddenly, she broke once more into song. ‘O where are you going with your love-locks flowing, On the west wind blowing along this valley track?’ ‘The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye, We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.’ ‘What is that?’ asked Nat, startled by the sudden cessation from the dreams and reveries into which he had been plunged. He was sitting by the fire, with a sheet of cardboard on his knee, and some paper on which he was tracing patterns for her needle-work. Tina did not answer at once; she let her fingers wander idly amongst the chords of the music, which she was playing from memory. ‘How do you like it?’ she asked with a quick movement of her head, ‘though I need not ask, for I know it is not your style. The words are by Christina Rossetti, I found them in a book of poems; and a friend of mine made them into a song for me.’