By the time he had come through the mile of hawthorn, and defied the Plashy Hall dog with his stick, she had passed out of his thoughts, and his indignation against her had changed to indignation against the impudent attempt—obvious from the notice-boards—to deny him and the public this old-established right-of-way. Things would not have got even thus far had _he_ remained in Little Bradmarsh, he was thinking, and he was already brooding over a plan of campaign as he was climbing over the stile back into the high road. And then his vaulting leg remained suspended an instant in air in sheer astonishment. Jinny was facing him from her perch of vantage, smiling sweetly from her witching bonnet, her cart athwart the road, in fact he could hardly step off the stile without treading on Methusalem’s toes. Relaxing his motion, he sat down on the stile, staring at her. X “Why, Will!” exclaimed Jinny, and there was now a strange softness in her face and voice. “How stupid of me not to recognize you when I’ve got your box all the time!” His mind, still perturbed about the right-of-way, and bent now upon home, could not adjust itself so suddenly to the new situation. Again his mouth opened without issue. Her smile faded. “I’m Daniel Quarles’s granddaughter,” she said with a little quaver. “Little Jinny of Blackwater Hall.” “So you’ve remembered me at last!” His voice came out harsh, though inwardly he was melted by this new sweetness. “Then did you know _me_ all the time?” “Of course—the moment I clapped eyes on you.” He was not consciously romanticizing. “That’s what I’ve been thinking as I waited here for you. I’m so glad. Because that shows you were only teasing me, saying all those horrid things.” Then a new thought struck her to self-mockery. “Of course—I’m getting silly—it wasn’t so wonderful of you recognizing me, with the name of Daniel Quarles on the cart.” And she laughed merrily. “Do you know why I didn’t recognize _you_? It wasn’t only Miss Flippance put me off, and that I couldn’t connect you with drums and marionettes—it was you yourself that blocked the way.” “I don’t understand.” “The old you, I mean—I was thinking about him all the time we were talking, and that funny new you wasn’t like him one bit.” “Thinking of me!” He was touched. . . . “Whatever made you think of me?” “Didn’t I just tell you I’ve got your box? And of course I knew you were coming back. We’ve been expecting you for days.” “Oh, then mother did get my letter!” His latent ill-humour flowed into the new channel. “Of course.” “Then why didn’t dad come to meet me?” Her mouth twitched humorously at the corners with the suspicion the letter was still unread, but she replied: “I suppose because he’s old and hasn’t got a trap any more, and he knew that Tuesday was my day. Jump up, I’m ever so late!” He shook his head. “I can’t jump up.”