The little bell buzzed and ting’d. The shop was empty and rather dark, for a grey starless dusk was on the fields after a rainy day. The wind rattled the door he had shut behind him, and moaned round the little leaded window banked up with penny toys and tins of fruit. It had a long sighing sweep over the fields from Bird-in-Eye, and just across the road was a willow pond, from which it seemed to drink sadness. Over the banks of papered tins and paint-slopped toys he could see the grey bending backs of the willows, and the steely ruffle of the pond under the wind. His throat grew tight with a word that was stuck in it—“Good-bye.” The door of the back room opened, and there was a leap of firelight and the song of a kettle before it shut. “Evenun, Mus’ Tom,” said Mrs. Honey. “Evenun,” said Tom. “A packet of Player’s, please.” Thyrza put it on the counter. “Any sweeties?” “Yes. I’ll taake a quarter of bull’s-eyes and four-penn’orth of telephones. I woan’t leave them behind me this time”—and Tom grinned sheepishly. “Your brothers and sisters ull miss you,” said Thyrza, poking with a knife at the sticky wedge of the bull’s-eyes. “Not more’n I’ll miss them and the whole plaace.” “I reckon it’s sad to say good-bye.” “Unaccountable sad.” Her eyes were fixed on him very tenderly. She was sorry for Tom Beatup—had always been a little sorry for him—she could not quite tell why. “It’ll be a long time before I see you again, Thyrza.” “Maybe not—you may git leave and come to see us.” He shook his head——“Not yet awhile.” His parcels lay before him, but she did not expect him to go. He was leaning across the counter, staring at her with big, solemn eyes, and she knew that she liked his face, broad and ruddy as a September moon, that she liked the whole sturdy set of him. “Stay and have a bit of supper wud me, Tom.” It was quite unconsciously that they had become Tom and Thyrza to each other. The colour burned into his cheeks, but he shook his head. “No, thank you kindly. I’ve got to git back hoame. I’ve a dunnamany things to do this last evenun.” “Then come on your fust leave.” “Reckon I will——Oh, Thryza!” His hunger had outrun his shyness. He was trembling. She had lifted her hand to smooth back the soft fuzz of her hair, which in the dusk had become the colour of hay in starlight, and as she dropped her hand, he caught it, and held it, then kissed it. It was warm and wide and soft and rather sticky. “Oh, Tommy——” “D’you mind, Thyrza?” “I?—Lord, no, dear.” He was still holding her hand across the counter, and now he slowly pulled her towards him. Her darling face was coming closer to him out of the shadows; he could smell her hair.... Buzz—Ting. Their hands dropped and they started upright, both looking utterly foolish. The Reverend Henry Poullett-Smith sniffed an air of constraint as he entered.