"No such wife for me," he had said to his mother one evening, when they had just met one of their acquaintances in gaudy finery, which could not hide her slovenly boots or pinned-together dress. His mother quite agreed. Hard-worked and poor as she was, no one had seen her anything but neat. But Meg was different. As now and then he met her flitting up the stairs at the hall, or passing to and from her mother's cottage, he knew he had to do with quite a different woman from those with whom he was accustomed to meet. He was sauntering along a lane one afternoon in March when his work was over, thinking of all this, and enjoying the quiet twilight, when he saw a stooping figure in front of him eagerly looking for something. "Have you lost anything?" he asked, coming up to the figure. "Can I help you?" He found with a start that the subject of his thoughts was close to him. Hitherto she had only nodded civilly in return for his passing greeting, and now in the dusk hardly recognized him, though she knew he was a stranger to their village. "Oh, thank you!" she answered. "What is it?" he asked. "It is my mother's little brooch. I can't think how I came to drop it. I should not mind so much only that it has my father's hair in it. She values it very much." "I dare say we shall manage to find it. When did you miss it?" he asked. "Just now--not two minutes ago. I know I had it at that stile, because I turned there to look at the new moon, and I had it in my hand then." They searched in silence for some minutes, but the twilight had deepened quickly, and the dewy grass seemed all one mist under their feet. "This is damp for you, ain't it?" he asked suddenly. "Yes; that was how I came to drop it. I gathered up my dress, and it must have slipped then. Whatever shall I do?--we cannot see any longer." "I dare say they have a lantern at the stables; I will go and ask." "I will wait here," she answered. "Don't do that. You go home; I'll come back and look till it's found." "I cannot trouble you with that," said Meg. "Mother and I will come early to-morrow. No one passes this lane before seven. We could see soon after six now." "It will be no trouble," Jem answered earnestly; "and if it can be found to-night it is far better nor waitin'. There is some things gets better for waitin', but others----" Meg listened: surely there was a serious tone in this man's talk, such as her mother loved. They were rapidly nearing the light in her mother's window. "That is your home, ain't it?" asked Jem, pointing. "Yes; how did you know?" "I heard you lived there. May I come up to the door with you?" Meg assented. She was rather surprised, but not sorry that he wished it. When, however, he got to the door, he bade her an abrupt good-bye, and hastened back along the path. She saw his form disappear in the direction of the stables, and then she opened the door and told her mother all about it.