“It is no trouble,” he said; and in a minute or two the logs were rolled across the side path so that she could pass. The man who had been called upon to help was one of the farm-laborers whom she knew. She thanked him cheerfully by name, and turned to the stranger, who stood with his hat off, his pale face, which she remembered to have been so pale that she thought him ill, now covered with a brilliant flush which made his eyes shine. Rosalind was startled by the beauty of the face, but it was not like that of the men she was accustomed to see. Something feminine, something delicate and weak, was in it. “You are very kind to take so much trouble; but I am afraid you have over-exerted yourself,” she cried. This made the young man blush more deeply still. “I am not very strong,” he said half indignantly, “but not so weak as that.” There was a tone of petulance in the reply; and then he added, “Whatever trouble it might be is more than repaid,” with a somewhat elaborate bow. What did it mean? The face was refined and full of expression, but then probably he was not a gentleman, Rosalind thought, and did not understand. She said hurriedly again, “I am very much obliged to you,” and went on, a little troubled by the event. She heard him make a few steps after her. Was he going to follow? In her surprise it was almost on her lips to call back William from the farm. “I beg your pardon,” said the stranger, “but may I take the liberty of asking how is Mr. Trevanion? I heard he was worse last night.” Rosalind turned round, half reassured. “Oh, do you know papa?” she said. “He has been very ill all night, but he is better, though terribly exhausted. He has had some sleep this morning.” She was elevated upon the log, which she had begun to cross, and thus looked down upon the stranger. If he knew her father, that made all the difference; and surely the face was one with which she was not unfamiliar. “I do not know Mr. Trevanion, only one hears of him constantly in the village. I am glad he is better.” He hesitated, as if he too was about to mount the log. “Oh, thank you,” said Rosalind, hurrying on. CHAPTER XII. “To whom were you talking, Rosalind?” “To--nobody, Uncle John!” she said, in her surprise at the sudden question which came over her shoulder, and, turning round, waited till he joined her. She had changed her mind and come back after she had crossed the water upon the impromptu bridge, with a half apprehension that her new acquaintance intended to accompany her to the village, and had, to tell the truth, walked rather quickly to the park gates. “But I met the man--a young fellow--whose appearance I don’t know.” “Oh! I don’t know who it was either; a gentleman; at least, I suppose he was a gentleman.” “And yet you doubt. What cause had you to doubt?” “Well, Uncle John, his voice was nice enough, and what he said. The only thing was, he paid me a sort of a--compliment.” “What was that?” said John Trevanion, quickly.