“Oh, Mother Mary, but I thought death had you!” She threw herself on her knees and seized one of his hands in both of hers. “The saints be thanked, holy father; but we in Paradise would be wrath with you for thinking so little of us.” Martin stared at her, and in his astonishment he suffered her to keep a hold upon his hand. Her hood had fallen back, and showed her ripe, audacious face, and her black-brown eyes that were full of a seeming innocence. Her hair was the color of polished bronze, and her teeth very white behind her soft, red lips. “What are you doing here, child?” He was austere, yet gentle, and strangely unembarrassed. The girl was a ward of Widow Greensleeve’s, of Cherry Acre. She made a show of confusion. “I was out to gather herbs, holy father—herbs that must have the dew on them—and I saw you struggling in the river—and was afraid.” He smiled at her, and withdrew his hand. “I thank you for your fear, child.” “Sir, you are so well loved in the valley.” She stood up, smoothing her gown, and looking shyly at the grass. “You are not angry with me, Father Martin?” “How should I be angry?” “In truth, but my fear for you ran away with me.” She gave him a quick and eloquent flash of the eyes, and turned to go. “I must gather my herbs, holy father.” “Peace be with you,” he said simply. Martin went on his way, as though nothing singular had happened. The girl loitered under the willows, looking back at him with mischievous curiosity. He was very innocent, but somehow she liked him none the less for that. “Maybe it is very pleasant to be so saintly,” she said; “yet he is a fine figure of a man. I wonder how long it will be before Father Satan comes stalking across the meadows.” Kate Succory made a pretense of searching for herbs, so ordering her steps that she found herself on the path that led to the house at Cherry Acre. The path ran between high hawthorn hedges that sheltered the orchards, and since the hedges were in green leaf, the way was like a narrow winding alley between high walls. She did not hurry herself, and presently she heard some one following her along the path. “Good-morrow, Kate.” She halted and turned a mock-demure face. “Good-morrow, holy father.” Geraint was grinning under his cowl. “You are up betimes, sweeting.” She walked on with a shrug of the shoulders. “I have been gathering herbs, and I have the cow to milk.” “Excellent maid. And nothing wonderful has happened to you?” “Oh, I have fallen in love with some one,” she said tartly; “it is a girl’s business to fall in love.” Geraint sniggered. “I commend such humanity.” “It is not with you, holy father. Do not flatter yourself as to that.” She tossed her head, and walked daintily, swinging her shoulders. And Geraint looked at her brown neck, and opened and shut his hairy hands. “Perhaps Dame Greensleeve will give me a cup of hot milk?” he said. “Oh, to be sure.” And she began to whistle like a boy.