He trudged along the road, his hat drawn down to his eyes, his shoulders humped, his gaze fixed doggedly on the road before him. He marched as men march who have had the worst of the battle, yet whom it would be unwise to pursue too closely. At first he walked rapidly, taking where he could a by-path, or a short-cut, and though the hills, rising from the plain before him, were fair to see on this fine winter day, as the sun began to decline and redden their slopes, he had no eye for them or for the few whom he met, the road-man, or the carter, who, plodding beside his load of turnips or manure, looked up and saluted him. But when he had left the town two or three miles behind he breathed more freely. He lessened his pace. Presently he heard on the road behind him the clip-clop of a trotting horse, and not wishing to be recognized, he slipped into the mouth of a lane, and by and by he saw Clement Ovington ride by. He flung a vicious curse after him and, returning to the road, he went on more slowly, chewing the sour cud of reflection, until he came to the low sedgy tract where the Squire had met with his misadventure, and where in earlier days the old man had many a time heard the bittern’s note. He was in no hurry now, for he did not mean to reach the Cottage until Clement had left it, and he stood leaning against the old thorn tree, viewing the place and thinking bitterly of the then and the now. And presently a spark of hope was kindled in him. Surely all was not lost—even now! The Squire was angry—angry for the moment, and with reason. But could he maintain his anger against one who had saved his life at the risk of his own? Could he refuse to pardon one, but for whom he would be already lying in his grave? With a quick uplifting of the spirit Arthur conceived that the Squire could not. No man could be so thankless, so unmindful of a benefit, so ungrateful. Strange, that he had not thought of that before! Strange—that under the pressure of difficulties he had let that claim slip from his mind. It had restored him to his uncle’s favor once. Why should it not restore him a second time? Properly handled—and he thought that he could trust himself to handle it properly—it should avail him. Let him once get speech of his uncle, and surely he could depend on his own dexterity for the rest.